Most Quiet Need
by meetmeinstlouie
Summary: "I love thee to the level of every day's/Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light." - Elizabeth Barrett Browning. They somehow found each other in America. But a war will separate them from the life they have built together. Chelsie AU. Historical. I will try to update this on a weekly basis.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well, hello there. This is the beginning of an idea that wormed its way into my mind recently. The actual idea will be around chapter three. So will the reason for the M rating. :)**

 **Instead of doing a flurry of flashbacks, the first two chapters are background – prologues, if you will.**

 **UPDATE: There are a ton of historical facts referenced in this. They are listed at the bottom.**

 **The title comes from a line in Elizabeth Barrett Browning's famous sonnet 43. It was written during this time period.**

* * *

 _ **England to United States, 1846**_

In his twenty-second year of life, he goes west like so many others. To find adventure, riches, a life that calls him away. It is not as though he has solid ground to stand on.

In the little village where he was born, he will forever be the groom's son. His mother, a gentle soul, was a seamstress.

He is now alone. The world beckons.

From Yorkshire to Liverpool, across the stormy Atlantic, to the port of the city named after the Duke of York. Then to Philadelphia, where the American rebels had once defied King George III and declared their independence.

The cities are nothing to him; he has always loved and preferred the countryside. But _this_ country is vast, so much greater than the old one he left.

He sails down the Ohio River on a steamboat. One day he listens to a man tell how the Shawnee had burned settlers' cabins to the ground in his grandfather's day, and had taken the females captive. Another group of travelers listen to the stories with interest, but the women and children are sent away when the details are deemed too bloody.

He thinks it is ridiculous that women cannot hear what happened to other women.

From the stubborn look on one red-haired girl's face she agrees. But she goes with the crowd of women and children to watch the steamboat wheel turn.

The burning of cabins and the raids by the Shawnee are long past. Over thirty years have come and gone since Tecumseh was defeated and the Treaty of Greenville signed. Ohio is full of white people now. Settlers. Farms. Towns with churches, their white steeples.

Civilization.

He has not crossed an ocean to settle with some farmer's daughter.

Sailing down the Ohio, he continues further south on the Mississippi River. The grand plantations, the splendid houses, the men who live like princes, are nothing like he has ever seen.

It seems incredible to think most of them were once like him. Born with nothing.

In England, one man tells him, I would have spent my days farming the earl's land where I was born. Now _I_ am the master. He puts a hand on Charles's arm. You can do that, too. You can be anyone here.

You can be anything you want.

 _ **New Orleans, 1846-1849**_

The old city is a revelation. The vibrant French Quarter with its exotic atmosphere and its equally exotic women. He loses his head for a time there, enticed by its particular allure.

He gets close to a dancing girl on Bourbon Street named Genevieve. He never does figure out where her accent comes from. A blend of the cadence of the south and Creole, with a hint of melancholy.

He becomes a man under her capable hands. For several months, he spends many of his spare hours in her bed, or his. Learning how to please a woman.

But their dalliance is a fleeting thing; neither wants to be alone. And she is slippery, more like the water on Lake Pontchartrain than solid ground.

She kisses him on the cheek one rainy night. It is goodbye.

Six months later, he loses his heart.

Alice Neal is the daughter of a wealthy merchant. The first time he sees her he is delivering a new cabinet piano to her home. She comes down the stairs into the music room to see the instrument.

Brown hair, bright green eyes, and an exquisite figure.

He has never seen anyone so beautiful in his life.

She flirts with him, and he knows it, yet he cannot stop himself from falling for her.

He could marry her, he thinks. If he works hard. She deserves someone who will care for her.

From that moment, he is determined to do whatever it takes to win her. No job is too small. Alice's father sees the eager young man and hires him.

Charles is soon busy with ledgers, with the problems of supply and demand, with business. It is not what he set out to do. But for the woman he loves, he is willing to forego the life of adventure.

Even when war with Mexico is declared. He is one of the few that does not enlist, though when he sees the way Alice lights up around several uniformed men, he is sorely tempted.

He is not comfortable in most social situations. There is a façade, an artifice about many of the men and women who attend the balls and picnics.

They do not know who they are, he thinks one evening in Mr. Neal's parlor, surrounded by stuffed shirts and cigar smoke. They try to appear a certain way. To impress their peers.

Maybe they all have an Alice in their lives. Someone they are trying to make happy.

He hopes she will let him try.

There are good times. Carriage rides, dances, talks on the moonlit veranda.

When he proposes and she accepts, he thinks his happiness is complete. His future father-in-law is delighted, Alice's mother less so. Charles is not surprised. Mrs. Neal was born in France. He will forever be an uncouth Englishman to her.

Mr. Neal takes him shortly to the slave market after he and Alice's engagement is announced. To further teach him how business is done.

And there, for the first time, he sees the buying and selling of wares that until that day have been to him only numbers on a page. At most, semi-visible figures in the background.

Men. In chains. Forced to dance. Their teeth examined as if they are horses.

Women – Charles averts his eyes, but he cannot look away – stripped in full view of a crowd of men.

The image of a child crying as she is taken from her mother haunts him.

He has seen them before, of course. The Africans are everywhere in the south. But they are never quite seen.

After going to the market, he sees them everywhere.

Alice does not understand. They are not _people_ , she tells him incredulously. Not like you and me. The fact that she says this with one of her family's slaves standing mutely in the background is not lost on him.

He cannot marry a woman who will not see the world the way it is. He cannot be a man who struggles to maintain a façade.

He yearns for the touch of something real. The way he felt when he first arrived on the continent. The smell of earth when it has been plowed under in the spring. The fresh breeze on a steamboat on the Ohio River.

His fiancée is more angry than devastated when he breaks their engagement. She cannot _believe_ he would do such a thing. To _her_.

When he leaves the house for the last time, she shouts at him. Tells him it doesn't matter how hard he works.

You will always be a nothing man from nowhere.

Crying later, he wonders who he fell in love with. The image of Alice, not the woman herself. The knowledge does not make his heart any less broken.

Mr. Neal is shocked when Charles tells him he can no longer work for him. He pleads with his would-be son-in-law to stay.

But the lure of the city at the mouth of the Mississippi has lost its appeal. He lingers for a time, trying to figure out what to do. At a gathering with a mutual friend he spies Alice with her new fiancé.

 _ **Western United States, 1849-1850**_

He leaves New Orleans shortly thereafter, heading north. To shed the memory of the city and Alice, he decides to go west. The land explored by Lewis and Clark over forty years earlier is still vastly empty.

Riches he knows now he can live without; honest work is enough. To work for himself, to build his own home is what he wants.

Nothing more.

But not many agree with him. The cry of "Gold!" is on everyone's lips like a fever. It feels like the whole country is headed to California.

He decides to go along, if nothing else to see this country from one end to the other. He knows it is unlikely many of those rushing west will get rich. But it occurs to him that they will need many of the same things.

At St. Louis he meets a fellow Englishman, John Bates. The two have a mutual respect for the vastness of the land, and a camaraderie common among fellow emigrants. By the time they disembark from the steamboat at St. Joseph, Missouri, Charles feels as though he has found a real friend. He never speaks of Alice, but John senses he suffers from heartbreak.

The two are hired as drivers on a wagon train heading for California. The journey is perilous. Overloaded wagons, men who have no knowledge of the land (but think they do) often cause more deaths than if they stayed at home.

They are fortunate there are a few among them who understand how precarious the journey is. Charles and John learn to listen to those who had gone before, getting advice from men at Fort Kearny. They also listen to the fears and trepidation of the women in the train.

Wives and mothers are usually more concerned with keeping their families alive than getting west quickly.

Along the Platte River, Charles intercedes when John gets into a heated argument with a fellow traveler. Guns are drawn. John is right that the oxen are exhausted, but Charles sees the man who hired him cannot see reason.

You could have been shot over nothing, he bellows later to his friend. Hold your temper, and keep your life. John is angry with him for days.

The cholera that strikes changes everything.

Nearly everyone in their wagon train falls ill. A quarter of those who began the journey die. Many oxen are scattered, and it is only when enough people have recovered who can bury the dead that they are able to move on.

Charles feels God has given him a second chance. At what, John asks, ever cynical, one early morning. Life? We all will die one day. We'll be as forgotten as the poor sods buried by the river.

Something else, Charles replies. I came to America in search of adventure, of riches, of a better life than my parents had. Now that doesn't seem to be enough. He looks down at his loose trousers, the symbol of the weight he lost. His body that nearly wasted away.

I have a chance to find what I've been looking for.

John smiles. Charles Carson, you're a romantic.

Maybe he is.

Among his prized possessions are treasures carried from England. Books. The plays and sonnets of Shakespeare, the poetry of Burns. Keats.

Alice always preferred dancing and conversation. She never understood why he read so much.

Charles reads them all by firelight. Sometimes he or John read aloud to the others. Most of the settlers left in their group are mainly preoccupied with getting to the west, but some listen. Including a kind schoolmaster and botanist named Joseph Molesley.

They press on, through Great Salt Lake City and the Latter-Day Saints that live there (John was tempted by the thought of multiple wives, but Charles talked him out of it) and into the sparse Humboldt River passage. The lurid tales of the ill-fated Donner party spur them on.

The thought of being stuck in the mountains in winter is terrifying.

When they reach the Carson River, Charles finds himself the center of attention. He has to explain numerous times that the river is _not_ named for him.

 _ **California, 1850-1852**_

California is a teeming mass of people. Flooded with those who dream of quick riches, it is hard to find a spare bed at night, much less anyone with common sense. John leaves to go make his fortune further north.

Charles misses his friend.

Fortunately, there is plenty to do. He sets up a store selling various goods. In little over a year, he has made more money than he ever dreamed of before leaving home. Most of his customers are American. But there are also Chinese, Italians, Germans. Mexicans. He sells to everyone, regardless of where they came from.

He finds himself listening for the sound of a Yorkshire accent. The day he first hears it, it comes from a rather noisy, stout girl with reddish-orange hair. Beryl Patmore is a recent arrival. She works as a cook in a mining camp with her mother.

There being so many more men than women, she has already gotten twenty-three marriage proposals. But who's counting, she says. Numbskulls, most of them.

She becomes good friends with the storekeeper, mostly on account of him _not_ being a numbskull. They can talk about lots of things – how easy it is for hapless settlers to get cheated, the difficulty of providing food for men, the slowness of news from back east.

Her mother gets the wrong idea.

It is one of the more embarrassing moments in his life when he has to tell Mrs. Patmore he has no intention of marrying her daughter.

He likes the frank young woman. As a friend. In many ways, she feels like the sister he never had. She helps him to feel less lonely.

His loneliness recedes further when John returns from the northern gold fields. He had some luck, he says, but the open greed and lack of human decency appalled him. He joins Charles at the store.

Life, it seems, is good.

What more is there, he wonders. Good health, a thriving business, good friends.

And yet he is not content. His spirit is restless.

His friends notice. Beryl says he needs a wife. Charles argues that is not the answer to _everything_. Maybe you need a change of scenery, John says. To find what you're looking for.

Whatever it is, he has not found it yet.

He listens to his Yorkshire friend. Charles has seen many women since Alice. Since his heart was broken. Some are kind, some are even more beautiful than the southern belle.

But he doesn't want to marry any of them.

He's not sure he's the marrying type, anyway.

Finally he takes John's advice. You're right, he says one night as they close the store. Maybe I've been here too long. Maybe it's time to move on. Six years I've been in America. Maybe what I was looking for was never here to begin with.

He thought he had found it in New Orleans, then in California.

Signing up aboard a sailing vessel that will depart San Francisco, to sail around the tip of South America, then on to Europe – _that_ surely will bring him what he longs for. Or at least bring him closer to it.

His heart whispers that he is running again. Running from the fear of never finding solid ground, a firm place to rest.

Better to keep moving, lest he be disappointed again.

He will miss his friends. Beryl tries not to show her tears when she visits the store for the last time before he leaves. I hope you find a good man, if you want one, he tells her. Surely there has to be a man either than me or John who isn't a numbskull. She laughs despite her red eyes, makes him promise he'll write.

He promises.

John shakes his hand. Thanks him for the store. I'll run it well, he says. Before Charles goes, he stops him with words to remember.

You saved my life, he says. At the Platte, that night I lost my temper. I'd be just another forgotten sod buried next to the river if not for you.

I will come back, Charles tells them through a lump in his throat. If…if I don't, divide my books between you.

He is leaving most of his treasures behind, partly out of wanting to keep his possessions few on board ship. But also because he knows there is a chance he will not come back.

Everyone knows how treacherous the passage through Cape Horn is.

He arrives in San Francisco and looks out at the bay. Crowded with ships, with people arriving. To a New World. New lives. He tells himself that is what he will find.

He steps into a tavern two days before his ship leaves and has a drink. On the way back to his room, he stumbles in the street, falling heavily.

A moment later, a knife is at his throat.

Put your hands behind your head, the thief hisses. Everything you have is mine. And then I'll cut your throat. He forces Charles to kneel.

The cold steel is sharp against the warm skin of his neck.

How stupid, Charles thinks with disgust. Pointless. A wasted life. I survive an ocean voyage, a journey through these United States down to New Orleans, then back north. Cholera. A dangerous trail west.

My whole life ended by a stranger. Tears prick his eyes. Not even my friends will know I am dead. My body will lie in some unmarked grave.

And then he hears the unmistakable click of a Colt revolver.

Drop the knife, a quiet voice demands, or I'll drop you. The thief lets go of the instrument at once.

Get out of here, his unknown savior orders the would-be thief. _Now._

The man trips before he runs off. Charles still kneels in shock. I am not dead, he thinks. Not dead. Alive.

It feels the same as after he recovered from the cholera.

Someone lays a steady hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," he answers, mortification making his face burn. He gets up and lets her lead him back down the street, to where there are lights and crowds.

He almost wishes the thief _had_ cut his throat.

That a _woman_ had to save him! How could he ever look at himself again? Or look her in the eye?

She talks to him as they walk. "This is a dangerous place," she says. "Best to keep to brighter streets. Or carry a revolver."

"Thank you," he mumbles, shame eating at him. _She must think I'm a sad fool_. "I have one," he explains, "but I left it at my boardinghouse."

She asks where he stays. He tells her, and she nods. The light from the tavern blinks out the windows.

"You should walk back that way," she points in the opposite direction. "It will take you longer, but there are no dark places like the one we just left. You'll be safe there."

The way she rolls the letter _r_ makes his belly flip over. Lovely Scottish brogue. Her red hair glints in the light of the sunset. He cannot make out the color of her eyes at all. Though she is much shorter than he, she walks so fast he almost has to trot to keep up with her.

And, he suspects, it was no empty threat when she ordered the thief to drop the knife. The thought fills him with equal parts awe and curiosity.

"Where do you live?" He asks. He wonders what she is doing out alone.

She raises her eyebrows, her dark eyes glimmering. "I don't make a habit of telling strange men where I live," she says in a clipped tone. His embarrassment increases.

"I-I only want to repay you for your kindness, miss," he stammers. "But I must be on board my ship tomorrow and will not be able to call on you."

"There is nothing to repay," she replies, her voice gentle. "Now if you don't mind, I must get on."

"Of course," he says, defeated. At least tomorrow he can sail away and forget this entire humiliating experience.

She stops a few feet away, scrutinizing him. "You seem to be a decent sort," she says softly. "What's your name?"

He removes his hat, remembering his manners. "Charles Carson."

"I'm Elsie Hughes." She takes a few more steps, walking away from him before turning around.

"Are you going to walk me home, Mr. Carson, or are you just going to stand there?"

He wonders if she is being patronizing. Or teasing him.

Then she smiles. Her eyes dance.

And for the first time he feels solid ground beneath his feet.

* * *

 **A/N: List of historical facts (to the best of my knowledge):**

 ***The city named after the Duke of York is New York City.**

 ***Philadelphia is where the Continental Congress declared the independence of the American colonies in 1776.**

 ***Before the proliferation of the railroad, travel by water was the fastest way to go. Steamboats were used on the major rivers east of the Mississippi.**

 ***The frontier continued to change as European settlers headed west. There were skirmishes and battles between the native peoples and settlers in Ohio and Indiana until 1814, when the Treaty of Greenville was signed. The details of the stories were, unsurprisingly, vivid Tecumseh was one of the greatest native leaders in American history. He was Shawnee, and he assembled an alliance between many tribes to fight the Americans during the War of 1812. A famous Union general in the American Civil War, was named after him - William Tecumseh Sherman.**

 ***Bourbon Street is probably the most famous street in New Orleans. Think Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday), beads, heavy drinking, and flashing women.**

 ***Louisiana Creole is a term used for people descended from colonial settlers, mostly French or Spanish. They have a distinct culture, separate from the traditional "southern" culture.**

 ***Lake Pontchartrain is a huge lake that sits next to New Orleans.**

 ***The Mexican-American War was fought between spring 1846 to the autumn of 1847, and won by the United States. It officially concluded with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which was ratified by the U.S. in February 1848 (see chapter 2) and Mexico in May 1848. It resulted in the transfer of a large chunk of territory, including what would become the state of California, and a number of other states. There was no military conscription at the time of the war in the U.S.; one would not be passed into law until the Civil War (1862). So Charles didn't HAVE to go to war. :)**

 ***New Orleans had a large slave market. It had an effect on many who witnessed it, including Abraham Lincoln.**

 ***William Clark and Meriwether Lewis were the leaders of the Corps of Discovery Expedition, which explored the source of the Missouri River from 1804-1806.**

 ***Gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill in January 1848. By that summer, the news had reached the east coast of the U.S. The term '49ers' was coined because the first mass of people who went to California arrived in 1849.**

 ***For those who traveled overland across the U.S., St. Louis, Missouri was a jumping-off point, as it is on the Mississippi River and just south of the confluence of the Missouri River. Many took a steamboat to St. Joseph, Missouri (on the opposite side of the state) and from there acquired wagon, oxen, horses and supplies.**

 ***Fort Kearny was an important landmark on the trail. It is in present-day Nebraska. The trail west followed the Platte River. Cholera was endemic along this juncture; water sources often became contaminated. Trust me. You do not. want. to. die. of. cholera. Or dysentery, for that matter (some of you may get the reference; it dates me)**

 ***Great Salt Lake City was the original name of Salt Lake City. The Latter-Day Saints (commonly known as Mormons) in the 1840s practiced polygamy. Their continued persecution was why they eventually settled in the Salt Lake Valley.**

 ***The Humboldt River passage was a dangerous part of the route to California.**

 ***Timing was essential to traveling west. Wagons could not leave until the spring (April-May), and it was imperative that people arrive in Sutter's Mill before they were trapped by the snow in the Sierra Nevadas. If the snow came early...**

 ***...the Donner Party is Exhibit A for what happens when everything goes wrong to a group of pioneers. Over eighty people traveled west beginning in spring 1846. Half of them died. They were trapped by the snow in November 1846; the last surviving member was not rescued until April 1847. Disease, madness, hypothermia, starvation, cannibalism. Basically if you want a story about the worst of the survival instinct read about these people. Their story was famous even before it was over. Suffice it to say NO ONE wanted to share their fate. On the positive side, there are a ton of places named after them in California.**

 **If that's what it takes, I'd rather die forgotten.**

 ***There is a Carson River in Nevada. The capital of Nevada is named Carson City. Both were namesakes of the western explorer and soldier 'Kit' Carson.**

 ***People from all over the world came to California during the Gold Rush, not just Americans. The vast majority were men. Women were seriously underrepresented, especially in the early years.**

 ***Before the construction of the Panama Canal, for many people the only way to get from the Atlantic to the Pacific (and vice versa) was to sail around Cape Horn, at the southern tip of South America. It was exceptionally dangerous.**

 ***The Colt revolver was one of the most commonly-used revolvers in the U.S. for many years. It was popular with officers in the Civil War. It was lighter than other guns, thus easier to handle for those with smaller hands...and women.**

 **If you still have questions, please feel free to ask.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for the support for this fic! This is the second prologue, Elsie's POV. I do apologize for the length and for making you all wait. It got away from me. Also, the first chapter has been updated with way too many historical facts (posted at the bottom), so if you could pretend to go read them, I'd be much obliged.**

* * *

 _ **Scotland to United States, 1846**_

She can't help looking back through the fog at the farm. It disappears in the morning mist, as if it was a dream.

The land had supported generations before, but no longer.

Margaret was fifteen when she married. She told her younger sisters that marriage was a small price to pay for a full belly.

Mam and Da do not want that to happen to Elsie or Becky. In America there is plenty to eat. They can go to school. Grow into women.

Someday, he tells her as they board in Liverpool, you'll meet a man who will follow you for the rest of his days.

He grins at her raised eyebrows. _You_ will be the steady hand he's been looking for. The solid ground beneath his feet. And his heart will call to yours.

Is Mam your steady hand?

Aye, he winks. I would follow her to the ends of the earth.

She does not believe that she can hear the call of anyone's heart.

The voyage across the Atlantic is perilous. Mam is seasick most of the way, so it is up to her and Da to watch David and Becky. Her older brother, Malcolm, is fascinated by the ship. He wants to know everything about it.

New York is a loud, dirty, cramped place. She thinks she will go mad in the din.

They take a steamboat down the Ohio River from Pittsburgh. It is crowded with travelers, with other settlers and adventurers. One bright morning, she sits with her family and others as a man tells stories about the Shawnee. Of burned cabins. Of the red men scalping children, ravishing women-

Malcolm gestures for her and the younger ones to leave. Why, she asks. Her temper flares. Mam silences her with a look, then gets up at glance from Da.

What's _scalp_ mean? Becky whispers. She shrugs.

The women and children go to watch the steamboat wheel. She watches the water churn and wonders what happened to the settlers long ago.

Near sunset, she goes out on deck again to search for a wooden doll Becky had lost. A solitary man with wild black curls leans on the rail, his broad shoulders tense. He does not seem to see the green fields on the banks of the Ohio, the distant cows.

He looks as though he, too, is searching for something.

Mam scolds her later. We are in a strange country, with strange men. It is dangerous for you to be alone.

Why would any man look at me? She asks. I am only fourteen, and a skinny girl at that. And not a very pretty one.

 _ **Western Kentucky, 1846-1849**_

They settle on a farm south of Paducah, close to Da's brother Ian, his wife Sarah and their children. There are a number of other Scots nearby.

The freckles come out on her arms that summer. Mam has to keep reminding her to keep her hat on when she works in the fields. With her hair, Da laughs, she will never be mistaken for a Shawnee.

It is a new feeling to not feel hungry _all_ the time.

David and Becky sprout like weeds. She, Mam, and Aunt Sarah are kept busy sewing longer trousers, longer sleeves, more material on skirts. For the first time, she sees the budding of her breasts when she dresses.

Neighbors stop by to chat. Joe Burns, a lad of seventeen, stammers and goes red when she says good morning.

The sky seems bigger than in Scotland. She gazes into the blue ether, wondering at how big the world is.

She, David and Becky go to school for the first time after the harvest is gathered. It is rather humiliating to sit in the front with the little children as they all learn the letters. But she learns fast. By the time the snow flies, she sits in a desk further back with children closer to her in age.

The schoolmaster lends her a book. _Robinson Crusoe_ , by Daniel Defoe, she reads the title slowly. An adventure story, Mr. Molesley says. I thought you might like it.

She reads it aloud to anyone who will listen. Becky. The milk cow. Da and Malcolm in front of the fire. David, as they sit in the hayloft in the barn, the cats mewling from their nest.

When she finishes it, she borrows another book. And then another. And another.

No man will want a girl whose nose is forever in a book, Caroline Anstruther sneers. Unless you want to marry the schoolmaster.

Even Aunt Sarah is skeptical.

There is no need for her to read _poetry_ , she hears her say to Mam.

I am strong because I use my body to work, she thinks. Why not read to make my mind strong as well?

She continues reading.

David begins to cough the second winter after they arrive. They think it will pass, but weeks later he is no better.

Consumption.

It is hard, so very hard to watch her younger brother cough and waste away. The boy who used to run through the fields can barely lift his head.

She reads to him to pass the time. He likes hearing Shakespeare, says the words are like music. _Hamlet_ is a particular favorite.

It is in the dim hours between night and morning when she stops.

Silence.

Only later when she goes back to see where she marked the page does she cry. _This above all: to thine own self be true._

In the spring, a high fever sweeps through the community. Everyone is struck with it, with varying degrees of severity. She and Malcolm are bedridden for several days until their fevers break.

Da succumbs to it. At the end, he speaks as though his absent children are in the room.

His funeral is held before she is strong enough to attend.

Her grief is like a hidden splinter she cannot reach; not often making itself known, but when it does, the pain is sharp.

Becky has changed. Once a bright little girl, she now needs help dressing herself. She has lost the ability to speak, except for a few words. She must be watched all the time.

The difficult times continue. It is a wet summer and most of the crop fails. Uncle Ian helps when he can, but he has his own family to look after. One neighbor, Patrick Clarkson, mends their fence without asking, and helps Malcolm bring the small harvest in.

She wants to go back to school. But Mam needs her help, with the farm and with Becky. One cold day in December when she is pitching hay down to the animals, the schoolmaster visits to lend her some books. Study when you can, he tells her. I'll come by next week and see how you're getting on.

She can scarcely stammer thank you past the tears that threaten. She wonders why Mr. Clarkson is there also, but remembers Mr. Molesley is currently staying on his farm.

Your Da wanted you to learn, her neighbor says quietly after the schoolmaster leaves the barn. He was very proud of you. He would not want you to give up your studies. Or your reading.

He then hands her a book with writings by Francis Bacon _._ He leaves before she can voice any reply.

Mr. Clarkson is keen for the local children to go to school, she knows. His own son is away at Transylvania University. But why does he care what her father said?

That evening she finds out why. She stares at her mother in shock.

You-you're _marrying_ him?

Our land borders his, Mam says. And you know Malcolm is going west in the spring.

Her brother cleans his pipe. I could not leave without knowing you all will be cared for.

He will be twenty-one after the New Year. A man. Free to chart his own destiny.

And her mother is marrying Mr. Clarkson.

She goes to bed, not bothering to hide her tears.

Mam sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake Becky. Patrick is a good man, she says. A kind man. He will be good to us. She continues talking, though Elsie does not respond.

We cannot run this farm alone. Da and I agreed to let your brother go when he became a man, and I want to keep my promise. She is quiet for a long while.

Patrick is not like your father, but no one else could be. There is a tremble in her voice. For me there will only be one man whose heart called to mine.

Abigail Hughes and Patrick Clarkson are married in January 1848. Malcolm and Patrick's son Richard are witnesses.

Her stepfather wins her respect by his patience and quiet dignity. He often helps soothe Becky when she rages, and never loses his temper when she makes a mess.

Richard is not what she expects. She thought he would be a university man, too good for farm work. She is astonished when she finds him in the barn milking the cow one frigid morning.

Even more astonished when he asks her what she thinks of the end of the war with Mexico.

They exchange letters after he returns to university. She writes about helping Patrick with the accounts, Becky's troubles. Her intermittent studies.

He writes about the midwives in Lexington, both black and white. They know more than we do, he says.

Later he explains a large inkblot on one letter. He called at the house of a local banker. Robert Todd's daughter was visiting with her family, and she suffered a bout of bilious fever. Her sons ran riot that evening, scattering books and upsetting Richard's inkwell.

Their father may be a congressman, he writes, but Mr. Abraham Lincoln does not discipline his children _at all_. He is a man of principle, though one of the ugliest men alive.

It is good to have someone to talk to about such things. At home, there is little more to conversation than the weather and gossip from Aunt Sarah.

Negotiations between the United States and Mexico finally conclude with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. The west is vast, and is a tantalizing prospect for many. Malcolm heads to California in the spring.

She misses her brother.

After he leaves she finds herself often watching the sunset in the evenings over the flat fields, wondering what his journey is like.

Richard graduates from Transylvania and settles in the area. In his spare time, he spends a lot of time helping at the farm and looking after Becky.

Joe Burns waits for her after church every Sunday. She walks with him sometimes.

She does not want to be rude.

But it _is_ nice to join him in the reeling at a neighbor's dance one evening. Strip the Willow has always been one of her favorites.

When Joe gently takes her by the hand and pulls her laughing behind the barn, she feels giddy in the moment, her face flushed in the warm air, her hair tumbling down her back.

Lying in bed that night she wonders why she felt so little when he kissed her.

Surely she should feel _something._

It is a new sensation to have men's attention. At her cousin Lizzie's wedding, there are a flock of them trying to receive her favor, like bees around a daisy, she thinks. She is more amused than anything else. It is a relief when Richard dances with her.

She is not amused at all when she hears gossip about herself and the young doctor. She makes it very clear to her Aunt Sarah that Richard Clarkson is like another brother to her, _not_ a potential husband.

Sixteen is too young to be married, she thinks. Margaret writes from Scotland, and she reads between the lines sensing the poverty, the fragility of her sister's existence. Of two children before the age of nineteen, and another to arrive before the end of the year.

Her own resolve is tested when Joe proposes.

For a moment she can see her life before her – hard work, a farm, a solid man. Flaxen-haired children.

He is a friendly man, and would make a good husband.

But not for her.

His heart does not call to her, and though she would not shy away from a farm or children, she does not want either of them with him.

She declines, her voice soft. She does not like to hurt him either, but she cannot marry him.

Her family's support is a great relief.

Richard walks with her near the edge of the field one summer evening. Elsie Hughes, you are a romantic, he says. For all your practicality, you also want a man who will read Byron aloud and who will rock the bairns to sleep.

Maybe she does.

Harvest season comes and goes. She sees Joe riding with another young woman one windy afternoon.

It was not meant to be, she thinks. Just like perhaps we were not meant to stay in this place.

Unlike most people, it is not the allure of gold that the family speaks of in the evenings. Patrick suffers from arthritis in his hands, and the cold is cruel to him. He and Richard talk of California, of the mild climate.

I would like, Mam says from the rocking chair, to be as near as I can to as many of my children as possible.

That is when she knows they will follow Malcolm west.

 _ **Western United States, 1849**_

The birds are twittering in the trees the morning they leave. She does not look back.

Mr. Molesley travels with them from Paducah down to Cairo, then up the Mississippi. He too is looking for a fresh start.

At St. Louis, Becky gets away from Mam. They are frantic until Richard appears in the crowd by the docks, carrying her. A man caught her before she fell into the river, he says, as Mam embraces her youngest child. English, maybe Irish, from the sound of him. Fellow named Bates.

They take their leave of the schoolmaster in St. Joseph, Missouri and wish him well.

Acquiring sufficient supplies and good oxen takes time. Patrick notes the rush of people scurrying to leave. The journey is dangerous and he refuses to put the lives of his family at risk. Before they have reached Fort Kearny, two of the families in their train have had to abandon furniture and other heavy non-essentials.

Under the sky on the plains, she feels both free and insignificant. The hardest part about leaving Kentucky was saying goodbye to Da and David. But out here, under the great expanse, she feels them with her.

Along the Platte, Richard warns them to find more distant sources of water, away from others. Cholera is rampant, and it festers among the larger wagon trains.

Maybe if they are fortunate they can escape the dread sickness.

They do.

She enjoys the evenings when they have set up camp. One of their party carries a fiddle, and the music livens up the sameness of each day.

One night, as she dances with a young boy named Tommy Barrow, she sees a man leering at her from next to the fire.

She does her best to avoid him.

But one morning when they are camped in the Bear River Valley someone clamps a hand over her mouth. She drops the bucket and it rolls on the ground, spilling water.

She is certain he will have his way with her – until both of them hear a voice.

Tommy. With his rifle.

I owe you my life, she tells the boy later, still trembling. I wish there was a way to make it up to you.

There is nothing to repay, he insists stubbornly.

Soon after she sees him struggling to read a psalm to his mother. By the time they reach Carson Pass, he feels comfortable enough to read aloud to Mam and Patrick. To Becky. The exhausted horses.

The man who had so frightened her is kept away by the diligence of Patrick and Richard.

And by Elsie herself.

She, like her young friend, has acquired a new skill.

Patrick teaches her to shoot his Colt revolver. He praises her aim and calm demeanor. Hopefully you will never have to use it, he says. But it is better to be prepared.

 _ **California, 1849-1852**_

They settle in San Francisco. Patrick finds work with a harness-maker, and Richard is quickly pressed into service among the huge numbers of people flooding the city.

A doctor is a rare specimen. A university-educated one even more so.

She and Mam find plenty of work sewing for the legions of men who have not brought wives, mothers or sisters with them.

She does not like it, but twice in the first six months she is forced to draw the Colt revolver on men who will not take hints.

Two months after they arrive, Malcolm rides from Mission San Jose. He works on a farm near there, for a wealthy Californio. He brings several fruits and vegetables, including a strange shaped one called _aguacate_.

He also brings his wife, Josefina.

Elsie thinks Mam is more shocked by the knowledge that her oldest son is now Catholic, than that he is married.

She wonders how they talk to each other, as the young woman's English is limited. And Malcolm is still learning Spanish.

Brother and sister take Becky for a walk along the Bay. The great ships with their billowing sails rock back and forth in the choppy water.

How did you know she was the woman for you, she asks him, when you could barely tell her 'good morning'?

Malcolm swings Becky between them. It was like…stepping from an unsteady deck of a ship onto dry ground, he says. And for her, she said it was like an eagle finding its mate.

They talk about Mam. She looks well and happy, he says. I hope I did not disappoint her.

You never could, she replies, raising an eyebrow. If you had married an _English_ woman, on the other hand…

They laugh.

Later she watches her brother with his wife. Sees how her sister-in-law's eyes light up when he comes in the room. How he smiles at her.

How they have a language between them without words.

Shortly after California becomes the thirty-first state, a new Hughes is born. She and Mam travel south to help Josefina and to tend little Sofia.

Her niece is one of the most angelic creatures she has ever seen. Dark hair and eyes like her mother. But she gets her nose from her father.

Your nose, Mam smiles as they admire her.

Malcolm wants them all to come and live with them. Though the Mission has become a bustling hive of gold-seekers as well, it is further removed from the city.

She can see her mother would prefer to spend her remaining days in the beautiful country. It would be better for Becky as well.

She prefers it herself.

But after they return to San Francisco, Richard asks her to stay with him for a while. Just until the summer, he says. I don't want to keep you from your mother or brother.

Just until I can find a suitable place to stay. And you can fulfill your obligations here.

You are my brother, too, she says. She knows he is more suited for the busy life in the city. For now. They have grown close since Kentucky. He can tell her things he cannot always say to his father. They understand each other.

She decides to stay for a little longer.

Patrick, Mam and Becky leave to go live with Malcolm. Life continues on.

Hurrying back home after delivering a set of shirts, she pauses to take in the late afternoon sun. It is nearly dark when she moves again.

She touches the revolver, makes sure she still has it.

The streets are mostly deserted. The air is chilly when the sun fades, and it is too early for the sailors and vagabonds to fill the taverns.

Then she sees a dark shadow of a man huddled near the wall. A tall figure ambles nearby. Unafraid. Inattentive.

She sees the glint of a knife after the shadowy man trips his victim. What he says she does not hear.

Nor does she care.

Silently she moves behind him. Lets him hear the click of the hammer on the revolver.

She speaks softly. With utter calm. Her voice is cold.

She has learned that most cowards will not call her bluff. She has never had to shoot someone, but it is easier if they think she will.

The man drops his knife into the dust. Trips as he scampers away. He does not look back.

Still kneeling in the street, his would-be victim doesn't move. She wonders if he has been hurt. She puts a light hand on his shoulder.

Are you all right?

"Yes," he says, getting to his feet. They walk back into the more brightly-lit street nearby. She warns him about watching where he goes. Carrying a revolver is wise.

He is tall and broad, a big bear of a man. Coal-black hair escapes from underneath his hat.

"Thank you," he says quietly. It is clear he is embarrassed. He explains he has a revolver, but it is at his boarding-house.

 _Yorkshire_ , she thinks of his accent. A deep voice, one that could carry the length of the docks. Or soothe a fretful child to sleep.

When he tells her where he is staying, she feels as though an icy hand has reached out and squeezed her heart. It is a temporary place to lay his head. A place for sailors and men who only stay in port a few days.

She directs him in a safer direction. As she points the way he should go, regret gnaws at her. It is a real shame. He seems the sort of man she would like to know.

But he is not staying.

"Where do you live?" he asks. The questions startles her.

"I do not make a habit of telling strange men where I live," she replies, a little more harshly than she intended. But the more she sees him the deeper her disappointment gets.

 _Silly girl. You are in a city_ _ **full**_ _of men. What's this one to you? He would have had his throat cut if not for you._

"I-I only want to repay you for your kindness, miss," he stammers. "But I must be on board my ship tomorrow and will not be able to call on you."

She swallows. A courteous man.

Who she will never see again.

"There is nothing to repay," she says, remembering Tommy's gallantry. _I must write him back, ask after his mother._ "Now if you don't mind, I must get on." _Better to get home and forget about this._

"Of course," he replies, his impressive eyebrows knit together.

The way he says it echoes something of the regret in her own heart. "You seem to be a decent sort," she murmurs. "What's your name?"

He takes off his hat. "Charles Carson."

"I'm Elsie Hughes." She takes a few more steps, then wonders why he has not moved.

"Are you going to walk me home, Mr. Carson, or just stand there?"

She slows her pace a little as they walk. It is imperceptible to him, she knows. Richard jokes that she could beat a horse at a decent trot.

They talk nonstop back to her home. She is secretly thrilled her brother will be late coming home after finishing his calls.

Charles-Mr. _Carson's_ adventures sound like a journey akin to the Odyssey. New York, Philadelphia, down the Ohio (he is pleased she knows of some of the places he describes), following the Mississippi to New Orleans. Back north to St. Louis, up the Missouri, traversing most of the same trail her family had gone.

And now from California back to the Atlantic.

The sound of his voice is like water in the desert. She almost does not want to answer when he asks for her story.

"Well," he says as they stand on the steps of the rambling house, "it seems you have had quite the trek yourself." The landlady thankfully has left an oil lamp burning near the window, providing light.

"And yours is just starting," she folds her hands. At his befuddled expression, she reminds him. "You sail in two days, headed for Cape Horn."

"Oh – yes," he says, as if he has forgotten he has signed on to a clipper ship sailing to Rio.

"May you be safe, Mr. Carson. God keep you," she hopes her trembling heart is not heard in her voice.

He shifts his feet slightly. They are too big for the steps. He leans towards her, and she looks up.

Her breath comes short. It is not that she is affronted by the thought of him kissing her.

It is that she wants him to.

Charles stops his movement, as if remembering his manners. She is not sure if she is glad – or disappointed.

"Thank you," he lets out a long breath. "And thank you again for your help, Miss Hughes." He descends the stairs to the street. Turning, he looks up at her, holding his hat in his large hands.

"A funny thing…being so near the ocean again," he says, half to her and half to himself. "It reminds me of the primacy of feeling solid earth beneath my feet." Replacing his hat on his head, he smooths several errant hairs under the brim. "I don't want to change that any time soon. May I call on you in the next few days?"

When he smiles, his eyes twinkling, it is as if she can hear the beating of his heart.

It calls to her.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I am SO SORRY for the wait on this! Serves me right for working on other fics last week!**

 **This chapter gave me some trouble, mostly because my original intent of this story was to have the two preview chapters, then dive right into the main story. Which meant skipping forward** _ **a lot**_ **in time. But so many of you commented about Charles sailing away, and what would happen next, that I felt it would be too abrupt to skip that far. And it would cheat you of what little courtship they have. (Spoiler alert!)**

 **Also, I apologize for the length of this. Obviously word count is not my strong suit.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey, I just use the characters names. A lot. Occasionally I follow canon, but sometimes I don't. This is one of those fics. Fair warning.**

 **Disclaimer II: I am not a native Californian. I just married one. Brenna, you'll be getting a message from me at some point. I fudged on a few things here, but hopefully nothing too serious.**

 **To guest reviewers – please,** _ **please**_ **consider signing up for an account. You don't have to write anything to have one. I would love to respond to you all. I love reviews, but I can't respond to guests!**

 **I'm putting the historical facts up here, sorry for making this long, but you'll understand why at the bottom. If you skip them, I won't be offended.**

* * *

 ***The** _ **Witchcraft**_ **was a real clipper ship that sailed from the Far East to San Francisco, and on to Peru, then around Cape Horn to Brazil.**

 ***Mrs. Chung/Mrs. Gruzinsky – San Francisco, from the time of the Gold Rush, became home to a large population of Chinese immigrants. Chinatown there is still famous; the best (authentic) Chinese food I've ever had stateside was eaten there. Russian immigrants were also numerous.**

 ***Conflicts between Americans/Californios – The latter population were people born in California who descended from Spanish settlers. After the gold rush (familiar refrain), the flood of Americans caused tensions between the two groups, especially regarding land claims. Suffice it to say many Californios were cheated.**

 ***1852 Presidential Election – So the Whigs (one of the major political parties) weren't happy with the incumbent president, Millard Fillmore (one of the more unfortunately named American presidents). So they nominated Winfield Scott instead. (** _ **See!?**_ **Presidential nominees don't have to be guaranteed – if they stink, we can still get rid of them! Sorry, 2016 reality intruded.) The Whigs still lost the election to the Democrats' nominee, Franklin Pierce. P.S. The Whigs imploded as a party soon after, and Franklin Pierce is still considered one of the worst presidents ever. Mostly because he was one of the guys who came right before the Civil War.**

 ***Don Quixote – the famous Spanish novel. The title character loses his mind and thinks he's a knight. During one of his adventures, he sees windmills and mistakes them for giants. Dulcinea is a fictitious, unseen character in the book. She doesn't exist, except in Don Quixote's mind.**

 ***Montgomery Street was once right next to San Francisco Bay. I think. It's not anymore.**

 ***Cavallo/Carlo – More immigrants, blah blah. Charles being called Carlo is a nod to my choir director. Which is hilarious because he's actually Dutch.**

* * *

 _ **San Francisco, Early 1852**_

Charles barely sleeps that night.

" _Yes, you may call on me. Good night, Mr. Carson."_

The glimmer in her eyes, just visible from the light through the window.

He has never heard his own name spoken like that. The way her lilt curved around it made his heart race, and desire stir his manhood.

A laugh escapes from him. All this from a chance encounter due to his foolishness! _Slow down, lad!_

It is like, yet completely unlike, that day a lifetime ago in New Orleans. Alice, he muses, would never have risked her own neck to save a stranger.

Or given him a second glance.

It is a miracle that Miss Hughes did not dismiss him entirely. How did she know that by letting him walk her home, she gave him back a little of his pride?

 _Elsie._

He wonders if it is short for another name, whispering it to the darkness.

The clipper ship _Witchcraft_ sits quietly in the early-morning fog. The first mate is not happy he is not going to sail, but releases him without much fuss. At least you bothered to inform us, he says. Most don't even do that much.

Walking back onto the docks, he can't help thinking he is exchanging the lure of the sea for another kind of enchantment.

He goes back to the boardinghouse and writes a letter to John. Tells him he is staying in San Francisco for the time being. He wonders what to say further, as it is certain John will let Beryl read the letter as well – or, more likely, she will force him to give it to her. He is not ready to explain what has changed.

Or to hear his Yorkshire friend's gloating.

 _The most I can say,_ he writes, _is that I have found what I've been looking for._

And he can only hope that he will not be turned away.

He sends John's letter, as well as two others.

The air seems more brisk, the light brighter. He finds himself smiling, tipping his hat to people as he walks up and down the streets. The steep hills. It doesn't matter that he has little idea what the future will hold.

All he knows is that he has finally found a firm place to stand.

Part of him wonders if he has gone mad. He smiles to himself. _If this is madness, then I hope to never regain my sanity._

* * *

She cannot stop thinking about him. As she sits in the dining room at breakfast, she wonders what he is doing.

Hopefully not sailing away.

" _May I call on you in the next few days?"_

His voice made her mouth go dry and her heart speed up.

The feeling of dancing butterflies in her belly is so strong that she half-laughs at herself. _Foolish girl, you only met him last night! You don't know him at all._

But she does know him. Mr. Carson. An honorable man. A man she was glad to help.

A man whose heart calls to her.

 _Charles._

Has anyone ever called him Charlie?

She sips her tea too fast, burning her tongue. Serves you right, she scolds herself. He was likely only being polite when he asked to call.

Richard still snores at eight o'clock. She smiles fondly when she passes his open door. Boots askew on the floor, his bag dropped carelessly next to his bed.

 _The woman who marries him will have to understand the life of a doctor. Called out all hours, his life hardly his own._

Sitting by the window sewing, she is thankful for the bright morning outside. Both for the light it brings and for the sunshine that mirrors her heart.

You're humming, mutters Richard as he blearily stumbles into the room, pulling his braces up over his rumpled shirt. He thanks her for bringing coffee and bread upstairs. What puts you into a good mood today?

Was I not yesterday? She cannot remember anything before sunset the day before.

No, you were. Just you look…happy. Glowing.

It must be the sunshine.

Maybe. He sips his coffee, his blue eyes doubtful over the rim of the cup. She sighs and sets down the shirtsleeve in her lap.

I met someone last night.

Oh? He asks.

She tells him about the would-be thief. About meeting Charles Carson and their walk home.

I'm not looking after you properly, he says. Your mother would flog me, then you, then me again if she knew you sewed by day, and were acting like the sheriff of San Francisco by night.

The night before was not the first time she had pulled the Colt revolver on a miscreant.

Thank you for not telling her. And it isn't your fault Mrs. Chung's baby was big, she reminded him. You cannot always walk me home. Is she all right? Is the baby?

Yes, and yes. She had a boy, which seemed to make her mother-in-law especially happy. Not that I could understand a word she said. But never mind that, he yawns. This Mr. Carson must have made quite an impression on you.

He seems nice, she says rather defensively. To her horror, she feels heat rising in her face.

Richard's foot, which rests on another chair, falls to the floor with a thud. Oh _no_ , he leans forward. I've seen _that_ look. I never expected to see it on you. After meeting him _once!?_

 _What_ look?

He fights a smile, and fails. When's the wedding?

She glares at him and picks the sleeve up again. Don't be daft. Drink your coffee before it gets cold.

Malcolm wears that look, he says, his eyes serious. When he sees Josefina.

Mr. Carson simply asked if he could call on me! It doesn't mean he wants to _marry_ me!

He said he was planning to sail tomorrow, but before he left he asked to call? Richard swallows more of the bread. He's either a liar, or in love with you. If he calls here, I expect you to be Mrs. Carson before the autumn.

She rolls her eyes and huffs out a breath in exasperation at his cheek. For several minutes it is quiet as she concentrates on the sleeve and he finishes his breakfast.

There is a soft knock on the door.

It's the landlady, Mrs. Gruzinsky. There's someone to see you downstairs, she says. Richard reaches for his coat, smoothing down the front.

Not you, Dr. Clarkson, the matron smirks. Miss Hughes, he says his name is Mr. Carson.

Richard turns and looks at Elsie, a smug smile on his face.

Well, he says, he's not a liar.

* * *

Charles comes to see Elsie at the boardinghouse nearly every day as winter flows into spring. His work on the docks is sometimes busy, and sometimes light.

If Richard is there, they walk along the bay. The doctor follows at a discrete distance behind the two. If he is out on a call, or the day is too damp, the couple sits in the small parlor downstairs. There is always someone nearby, for propriety's sake.

They talk about everything.

About fewer people coming for the gold rush. The land conflicts between Americans and the native Californios. The presidential election, and the rumors that the Whigs will cast aside the president, Millard Fillmore, for another candidate.

Charles is pleasantly surprised by her sound opinions, even when he disagrees. She has a keen mind, and he is impressed by the effort she makes to educate herself. After he sees her one evening reading Keats, he lends her several of the books he has.

They take turns reading to each other. More often, he does the honors while she sews, but occasionally she insists on it, especially when he is tired after a long day.

More than once he falls asleep in the parlor to the sound of her voice.

He is embarrassed by this, but scarcely notices that when he reads, her sewing slows to a crawl as she listens to him.

She loves the sound of his voice.

For a man who is a day laborer, he is more erudite than would appear on the surface. It is apparent that he has seen a lot of life, but his tastes are simple. A job well done, a good meal, a book to broaden his mind.

When she notices a hole in his coat, she insists on keeping it overnight to patch it.

Elsie tells Charles about Becky. About how despite the fever took her little sister's mind, she still loves to sing and pick flowers. She shows him some of Becky's drawings that her mother sends with frequent letters from the family.

The picture that he gets, of a family spread far apart, yet close in heart is one that he rather envies.

"I was an only child," he says one Sunday afternoon by the bay six weeks after they met. "Once my parents were gone…I felt adrift. Nothing to hold me in place."

"Is that why you have moved so often?" she asks, looking up at him from under the brim of her hat. He smiles.

"Partly. And the chance to explore this country, to see as much of it as I could, was an opportunity I did not want to miss. Also," he looks out at the billowing sails of a clipper, "it may seem strange, but I felt rather like a man on a quest. Searching for something." He puts his hands behind his back, feeling the breeze. "Perhaps that makes me akin to Don Quixote."

The thought of him as a knight makes her blush. _Him in a suit of armor._ Not that he would indulge in the flights of fantasy that the legendary Spaniard would, she thinks.

"I think not," she says. "I hardly think you are the sort of man to tilt at windmills." He laughs under his breath.

It is one of her favorite sounds.

"Have you accomplished your quest?" she asks, her eyes twinkling. She wonders if, like so many others, he originally came to California in search of gold. Or simply an adventure. He _did_ plan to sail from the Pacific to the Atlantic. He might decide to do so again, and leave.

This thought sometimes keeps her awake at night.

Charles stops abruptly and turns toward her. Behind them, out of earshot, Richard stops as well.

"I think I have," he says so softly she barely hears him over the wind, "but I will not know for sure until Dulcinea says so. She is no figment of my imagination, you see, but a real woman of flesh and blood."

It as though she can feel the blood thrumming through her veins. Her skin flushes pink.

They continue walking in silence. He knows he must speak plainly, but now that the moment has come, he finds he has lost his confidence.

 _You already wrote to her mother. And she gave her consent. Thank God._

He removes his hat, stopping again further down Montgomery Street. "Miss Hughes, I hope you will forgive me for speaking my mind." Elsie raises her eyebrows.

"Mr. Carson, in the short time we've known each other, you have always spoken your mind. I would not expect you to stop now."

He nods and swallows a lump in his throat. His palms sweat. "I…have never met anyone like you. Your company is one that I enjoy more than anyone else's, and I am not eager for that to end any time soon." He fumbles in his coat for a letter. "But I received this yesterday. Mr. Cavallo asks me to come work for him in his vineyard, near Sonoma. I'm going to accept his offer."

"You-you are leaving?" Her heart plunges right down into her shoes. It is her worst fear – that she will lose him.

Not that he is hers to lose. She closes her eyes briefly, desperate to keep the rush of emotion in check. He steps closer.

"Yes. I only came to the city to sail, and never expected to stay as long as I did. I sold the store to Mr. Bates, and will not take it back. Now I have a chance to build another life." He sees the hurt in her eyes, those deep blue eyes. It gives him hope, even as he wants to take away her sadness. He takes a deep breath. "I have little to offer you now, but I will learn all I can at the vineyard. With my savings, I hope to buy a property free and clear. Build a house. Plant a vineyard and watch it grow. Make wine."

He was interested in the vineyards before he left to go sail, and has thought of how he could make a life since he decided to stay in California. Working on the docks was only a momentary thing. He does not want to open another store.

"I have no right to ask anything of you," he murmurs, "but I hope you will give me that chance. I will write, once I've settled." His voice drops to a whisper. "Will you-will you wait for me?"

He is terrified that once he leaves, she will forget him. San Francisco is full of men without wives. Someone (much less foolish and much more handsome in his mind) could turn her head after he is gone.

As her heart starts beating again, all she can think is how _afraid_ he is. She does not want him to leave, but his words and pleading look tell her of a promise, a whisper in her heart.

Still, she hesitates. She has felt drawn to this man since the day they met. But he has moved so often that she can hardly believe he would be willing to settle down. With her.

 _Dulcinea_ , a quiet voice reminds her. _He meant you. A woman of flesh and blood._

"And what will I be waiting for?" she asks, wanting him to be clear.

It is the opening he needs. "For me to work hard enough to provide a life for more than just myself. I want to be with you, Elsie. If you will have me."

He is unaware that he speaks her Christian name. He holds his breath.

Her heart stops at the sound. _He wants me. He wants to_ _marry me_ _._

She blinks rapidly, taking all of it in. It is what she hoped for, what she wants. Yet she has a sense of pride in her own worth.

And a niggling doubt that he could be truly happy staying in one place for long. He talks often of the places he's seen, expressing a fondness for the view of the Sierras. The wide plains. The Big Muddy, the Missouri River.

"I'm honored that you think so highly of me," she says, her voice trembling. "Really. But I can't accept."

As much as she wants to.

His heart shatters within him. "Why not?" he asks. Surely she cares for him.

She tries to explain. "I-I don't want to tie you down," she says, watching his stricken face. "To be a millstone 'round your neck. You have the ability to make a name for yourself. Make any life you choose."

 _Would I be enough for you?_

She does not want to be with a man who feels he has to provide _for_ her, rather than _with_ her. That is one of the things she appreciates about him, that he is not Joe, that he understands how hard she works. She knows he values her independence, little though it is.

"I know what life I want-" he begins, but she shakes her head. Looking away.

"Who knows what the future may hold? Or how much longer we'll even be here?" she continues. "Suppose you want to move away, change your life entirely-" her breath hitches, thinking about that very thing. "You don't want to be stuck with me."

 _She is giving me a way out_ , he thinks wildly. _She thinks I will get bored after a few years. Resent her._

 _Does she really have no idea of how much she has changed me?_

He feels ashamed of himself that he has so hidden his regard for her, under the cloak of propriety, that she still thinks he is the same man he was who planned to sail away.

And that he would be the sort of man to treat her like she was incapable of taking care of herself! He wants a partner, not a delicate doll who sits on a shelf and waits for the world to come to her.

He wants her. Elsie.

Not Alice.

He takes a deep breath, feeling every emotion possible. _I must make her understand._ "But that's the point."

"What is?"

"I _do_ want to be stuck with you." The look on her face is one of stunned disbelief. "Elsie Hughes…I'm asking you to marry me."

For an instant, the bay and San Francisco disappear, and she sits next to Da as the old farm fades away into the mist.

 _Charles would follow_ _me_ _anywhere. His heart calls to mine._

There is no one else, she knows. Nor will there ever be.

"Yes," she half-gasps, her heart feeling as though it will burst, "yes, of course I'll marry you!"

She visibly trembles, yet the bright smile on her face and her shining eyes make his heart leap.

He cannot find anything to say to express his joy. Pressing his lips together, he feels tears coming.

If her stepbrother were not standing feet away, he would have kissed her. Instead she offers him her hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses it, perhaps lingering a beat too long, but she does not seem to mind.

She breathes out a sigh and steps away from him, reluctantly dropping her hand from his. Richard approaches them slowly. It is obvious he knows what has just happened by the smile on his face.

He congratulates them, shaking Charles's hand heartily. They walk back to the boardinghouse, this time with Elsie's hand tucked into the crook of Charles's arm.

Her feet do not touch the ground. He memorizes the feel of her hand around his arm, every flex of her fingers.

Richard wishes Charles luck for his new venture. Repeating Elsie's request to write, he cautions him to take care of himself. Charles feels a different kind of pang at his words. Though he will miss Elsie much more, the doctor too has become a good friend. Richard lingers for a moment on the porch, then says a final goodbye before going inside.

The couple are completely alone for the first time.

Without a word, they move together.

Charles kissing her is nothing, _nothing_ like Joe. The mere touch of his lips on her hand made her belly flip, and the feel of his lips on hers is absolute bliss. Her entire body thrills at his touch.

Elsie _hums_ into his mouth when their lips meet. He has never heard the sound before, and instantly decides he wants to hear it again. When they break apart, he waits a beat to let her catch her breath.

Then he kisses her again.

She hums again and the sound almost makes him come undone. Somehow he manages to keep his hand on her shoulder.

A man driving a wagon brings them back to their surroundings.

Looking down at her rosy cheeks and dark eyes, he resists the temptation to kiss her again, holding her hands instead.

"I love you," he murmurs. The words come out without any prompting.

He has never said them aloud to anyone.

Tears fill her eyes. She is overwhelmed. She has always been able to keep a firm grip on her emotions, but her hold is tenuous at best with Charles.

But she is so _happy_ , she hardly minds. "I love you, Charlie."

It simply slips out.

She means every word.

He looks at her in wonder, even as his eyebrows are raised in surprise. She holds a hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to…I won't call you that, if you don't like it."

"No, no," he reassures her, a slow smile on his face. "I _do_ like it. It's just…no one's called me that in years. Not since England. But _you_ can," an impish gleam appears in his eyes before they go soft. "My love." He kisses her again then sighs, his breath tickling her cheek.

"I have to go," he says quietly.

"I know." Even knowing they will be together again, her heart breaks to think she will not see him for a while.

They hold hands for a long moment. Finally, he kisses her once more, and they both whisper their shared love once more.

He climbs down the stairs to the street. Unable to resist looking back, he meets Elsie's eyes. "I will come back," he promises, meaning it from the depths of his heart.

* * *

The vineyard is nothing like other crops. Mr. Cavallo has tended it for four years already, and this will only be its _second_ year producing grapes which can be then made into wine.

Charles learns quickly that it is all about the sun, and soil, and plenty of water.

There are other crops to look after as well, both to feed the family and to sell in town. The work is hard and hardly ever stops. But he sees the pride the immigrant family has in _their_ land. Something they have built with their own hands.

He writes every few days to Elsie.

 _Watching the vines ripen is like waiting for Christmas. Mr. Cavallo and his brother some days are more impatient than children! I can scarcely blame them, as so many depend on how the crop grows. The sunset two evenings ago was beautiful. The vibrant colors reminded me of you._

Her letters arrive just as often.

 _Mam, Patrick and Becky arrived here as expected. But Malcolm and Josefina and the baby were with them – I was delighted! Of course, they wanted to know everything about you. You will be pleased to know that Richard sang your praises almost as much as I did. I loved talking about you, but I miss you._

Happy news comes also from a different direction. As the rush for riches has slowed, so has John's business. He moves to Petaluma, a scant fourteen miles away. Beryl and her mother also move to the nearby town. Mrs. Patmore's sister-in-law is recently widowed. Running her large establishment is too much for her to do alone.

Charles helps cultivate another vineyard about two miles from Mr. Cavallo's property. Under the man's guidance, he prepares the ground, sets the trellises, makes sure the vines grow properly. One warm afternoon, they rest for a while.

Mr. Cavallo wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. This is good land, no? Do you like it, Carlo?

It is amusing to hear his name from an Italian. When Elsie asked him how he liked it, he wrote that it was better than hearing it from a Frenchman.

He takes a long survey of the view around him. The wide sky, the rolling hills behind. Beautiful, he says softly. Your brother is very fortunate to have it.

His companion laughs. Nino? He shakes his head. He likes helping me, working at home, but he doesn't want his own place! He's Mama's boy! No, if you want it, I sell it to you. Give you a good price.

Charles protests, but not very long, and without much effort. He has fallen in love with the land from almost the moment he saw it, and secretly envied the younger Cavallo for it.

He is glad now that he worked so hard.

He does protest more strongly when his employer gives him the price for the land. It's worth more than that, he says. But the older man refuses to take any more for it.

You and me, we are new here, he says. We help each other, yes? He pats Charles on the shoulder. Build a good house for your wife. For your family.

John comes for a solid week and with his help, as well as with Cavallo's oldest son, they get the walls up. It is in the Spanish style.

Do you think she'll like it? He asks John one evening.

Most likely. But you'd better leave some things for her to do. And it might be a good idea to invite Beryl to see it. Women see things we don't, he grins.

The flame-haired woman scrutinizes the place soon after. With her blessing, he feels like he can see the place as not just a house, but a home.

It is two weeks into the blueberry harvest before he begins to worry. It is not that Elsie's letters have become infrequent. They have ceased to come at all.

Maybe it's the post, Beryl says one Sunday afternoon in June. He and John are visiting at Beryl's aunt's large boardinghouse.

That's what I thought, he replies. Except I received a letter from Richard last week. He looks down at the wooden floor, his dusty boots. He said nothing about her being ill, or away. I've received _nothing_ for three weeks!

And you've written to her? John asks, puffing on a cigar.

Of course. Five letters since I've gotten her last. Charles covers his face. Every fear invades his mind. That Elsie regrets their engagement. That she's met someone else.

That she doesn't love him anymore.

She seemed happy to hear about the house, he says. Excited. I told her about the rooms, the wide veranda. About your suggestion, he turns to Beryl. About planting vines to grow to the roof-

What? The short woman's eyes grow wide.

I told her she could choose what to plant, he says, confused by her expression. After we're married.

You _told_ her _I_ visited your new house?

With your mother, he answers. She wouldn't think it improper.

Oh _wouldn't_ she? Beryl's face is getting redder by the second. An ominous sign.

Why would she? He is utterly baffled. She knows we're friends. I thought she would like to know a woman has seen her house-

He is cut off when Beryl leaps from her chair and grabs the newspaper off a nearby table.

 _You-Complete-Idiot-_ _ **Numbskull**_ _-_ _ **Charles-Carson!**_

Every word is punctuated by her slapping him over the head.

 _Ouch!_ He roars, getting to his feet. Have you gone mad!?

 _No_ , she storms, but _you_ have! Think about it! She's never _met_ me, she's only got your word that we're friends!

But we _are_ , he says, his hands up in case she attacks him again.

But she _doesn't know that_! She rolls up the newspaper again. Use your head! You say goodbye to your lovely fiancée in San Francisco. You buy a property for the two of you and begin building a house. So far, all well and good.

But _then_ , she raises her eyes to the ceiling, but _then_ you have all the sense of a horse's arse and you _tell her I've come and seen your house!? With my_ _mother_ _!?_

What's wrong with that? He still doesn't see the point.

She doesn't _know_ me! For all _she_ knows, I've had my eye on you for as long as we've known each other! And then she gets a letter telling her about the house, and a strange _unmarried_ woman with her _mother_ – who, for all she knows is completely in favor of you and I getting married – going all over _her_ house!

But this is all ridiculous, he says. He starts to laugh. You're like a sister to me! I've never looked at you that way! Elsie would never be jealous of _you_. She's pretty, and you-

He stops, suddenly aware of saying precisely the wrong thing.

Miss Patmore's right, John breaks his silence from the corner. You _ARE_ a numbskull.

He gets another slap. This time in the face. The blow stings, making his eyes water.

I'm sorry. He puts his hands around his nose, hoping she didn't break it. I should not have said that. You're a lovely woman, Beryl. You're going to make someone very happy one day-

Charles, John interrupts, for God's sake, hold your tongue.

Beryl sits back down in her chair. Never mind that, she says rather thickly. But really, Mr. Carson, it's bad enough you've probably broken her heart. She sighs.

From everything you say about her, Elsie Hughes sounds like a wonderful person. I was hoping to be friends with her. But now she likely _hates_ me! Because of _you!_

I was hoping to have someone to talk to other than Mother and old Aunt Ida!

John gets up and goes to the desk on the opposite side of the room. He pulls out paper, and a pen with a steel nib.

You're going to write to Elsie, he says to Charles in a voice that brooks no argument. Now. Tell her everything, apologize if she had the wrong impression. I'll keep the letter and post it tomorrow.

Wait. Beryl gets up, and puts her handkerchief away. Leave out some paper. _I'm_ going to write to her myself. She shoots a glare at Charles. She needs to hear the truth from someone who _isn't_ a numbskull.

* * *

She tells herself that she is being absurd. That Charles would never have feelings for someone else.

And if he did, she thinks in her darker moments, he would not be so cruel as to write to _her_ about them.

But what is she supposed to think?

You said Mr. Carson spoke of Miss Patmore as a good friend, like a sister, Mam says one morning in the parlor. Surely that is all he means by it.

I'm sure he does, Richard leans forward in his chair. He is an honorable man.

I know that, Mam says softly. I trust you, and Elsie's judgment. I was touched when he wrote to me personally. Not every man would have.

Elsie knows they are likely right. That evening, she gets out the letters Charles has sent her since _that_ letter.

They are the same as the ones before, though the last three have hints of worry.

 _I hope you are well…no letter arrived from you in the last week…it is like hearing your voice when you write to me…I miss you, my beloved._

She stifles a sob, not wanting to wake Mam and Patrick. Once again, she lights the lamp and attempts to write a reply.

But the pen sits idle in her hand as she stares at the little flame. How can she say anything when the only questions are ones she _can't_ ask him?

 _What is Beryl Patmore to you? How_ _well_ _do you know her? When you look at her, does she make your heart skip a beat?_

Lurid images fill her mind. A lithe, blond woman with light green eyes. A raven-haired beauty. Or a brunette.

Like Alice.

The woman he almost married in New Orleans.

She crumples the paper and throws it into the fireplace. She half-laughs even as jealousy rages through her veins. If she were an animal, she would be a wild horse, kicking anything in sight. No. A stealthy mountain lion, stalking its prey.

She pictures herself chasing a faceless woman down Montgomery Street and throwing her in the chilly water. She slumps over the little desk, her face in her hands.

Beryl Patmore might be a good-natured person, undeserving of such scorn. It would be nice to have a fellow woman to talk to. Someone closer in age to her.

 _If_ she isn't, in fact, trying to seduce Charles.

Giving up on writing, she flips her braid over her shoulder and goes back to bed.

The next morning Mrs. Gruzinsky hands her two letters at breakfast. She almost chokes on her bread when she sees Charles's handwriting on one of them. Leaving the table, she runs into the empty parlor and sits in a chair. She lays aside his letter, wanting to postpone another plea for her to write.

The handwriting on the other letter is unfamiliar.

 _Dear Miss Hughes,_

 _Please forgive my impertinence, but I thought it best for you to hear of my connection to Mr. Carson directly._

 _My name is Beryl Patmore. I met your Charles Carson when he owned a store near Sacramento City. We shared some similarities. Being natives of Yorkshire being the most prominent. When I met him I was used to meeting men who were either numbskulls or bores. He was neither._

 _I enjoyed talking with him, and we became friends. This may give you the wrong impression. Let me reassure you._

 _Mr. Carson is not the man for me. To be honest, if I was married to him, I'd be tried and hanged for murder within a year. He is intelligent, but he can be horribly inconsiderate at times._

 _Please don't think I'm trying to dissuade you from marrying him. I have no doubt that he watches every word with you, and is much more polite. I'm equally certain that you have more patience than I do._

 _Growing up in a house with five girls (I'm the youngest), having a brother is something that I always wanted. Mr. Carson always wanted a companion as a child. The way he and I regard each other is much like that of a brother and sister._

 _He asked me to come look at the house he's building for the two of you, saying that he wanted a 'woman's eye'. I'm sure you will agree that there are things that men can't see. I brought my mother along simply to keep the local gossips at bay. As much as Mr. Carson, Mr. Bates and I are friends, I know that most people may not see it that way._

 _Nothing improper happened, or was intended._

 _It is a lovely house. I think you will be pleased with it._

 _From the moment Mr. Bates and I spoke with Mr. Carson after he arrived in Sonoma, everything was clear to us._

 _Mr. Carson loves you. He utterly adores you. He thinks the world of you, and is willing to go to the moon and back to make you happy. If I'm lucky enough to find a man who looks at me with half the stars in his eyes as my friend does when he talks of you, I will be a blessed woman indeed._

 _If I have not convinced you by now, let me be blunt._

 _I'm short for my age. And rather stout, despite my best efforts (which are few and far between, my love for pudding overcoming my best intentions most days). My hair, like yours, is red. Though mine more closely resembles orange._

 _Aunt Ida (my father's sister) says my cheeks are too round, my voice too shrill, and my nose too short, for me to ever catch a man. I'm fairly certain she caught_ _her_ _husband only by locking him in the cellar, and only letting him out once he promised to marry her, so her opinion is rather fishy._

 _Mr. Bates is at this moment standing by the desk as Mr. Carson finishes a letter to you. I do hope he writes a groveling apology. Please feel free to write to me if he hasn't, and I will make sure to hit him with something heavier than a newspaper._

 _I hope you and your family are well. I look forward to meeting when you come to Sonoma._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Beryl Patmore_

Elsie reads the letter through once, then twice more. The third time she reads it, her lips twitch and she laughs until tears run down her cheeks.

Mirth and relief are equally felt.

Then she picks up the other letter to read. It is much shorter.

 _My darling Elsie,_

 _I have been recently informed that writing to you of Miss Patmore's visit to our house may not have been wise._

 _Please be assured she is my_ _friend_ _only, nothing more. I wanted her opinion, to get a different perspective than either mine or Mr. Bates' view._

 _It gives me pain to think that I may have hurt you. If this is so, I never intended to. I am truly sorry if you thought that I had broken faith with you. If there is anything I can do to make amends, please tell me._

 _From the way Miss Patmore is writing from the table, I have little doubt that she is telling you everything. Please don't think too badly of me._

 _I am truly sorry for misleading you. I love you._

 _Yours,_

 _Charles_

* * *

One month after Elsie receives the letters, she receives a visitor.

Wrapped in Charles's arms on the porch, she kisses him again, sliding her hands around his back. He moans and breaks away, leaning his head against hers. "Am I forgiven for my foolishness, then?"

"Yes," she breathes, reaching up to touch his face.

" _Ouch_ ," he says, wincing.

"I'm sorry, I forgot," she says, a smile playing at her lips. "It still hurts?"

"Yes," he admits. "She didn't break my nose. But I had a bruise on my face until last week."

She smirks. "I will have to thank your friend Beryl when I meet her."

"For maiming your fiancé? What kind of woman are you?"

"A wise one. As is she. She knew if she punished you thoroughly, I would not." Elsie gives him a smile from under her eyelashes. He groans aloud.

"When you smile at me like _that_ , it is worse than a blow to the face!"

"Oh dear. Do I require punishment?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Yes," he growls, leaning down again.

He kisses her until _she_ moans. He smiles against her lips. As much as he would like to never stop, he knows they must, as does she.

But they do not have to wait for long.

In a few days' time, they will be husband and wife.

 **TBC…the wedding day-oh, who am I kidding? The wedding night beckons.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Groveling apologies for the delay. Real life intruded, big time. I hope this is a fitting gift for you all. This shatters my previous record for word length in a chapter, too.**

 **Reminder – M for a reason. Uh, yeah.**

 **In terms of historical notes, there isn't much here. Mostly about clothes. The Paisley shawl was a real thing, hugely popular. I couldn't resist throwing that in, as a nod to Phyllis Logan.**

 **Oh, and I went on about certain aspects and the difficulties thereof because 19th century and zero sex education, except for what your parents taught you. If you were lucky. And if they knew anything. Aaaaanyway...**

 **The stuff about Sunday I mostly gleaned from the Little House books (Thanks Laura Ingalls Wilder!) when they were all super strict about the Lord's Day. No cooking, baking, or unnecessary chores. Sitting quietly, reading the Bible, basically that was it.**

 **Yeah, I don't think my ancestors went by the rules all the time, either. Seriously, don't newlyweds deserve a pass?**

* * *

 _ **July 1852, San Francisco**_

The press of his soft lips on hers, his big hands warm on her waist, is absolute bliss. She wants more, more, her body alive under his touch. He kisses her again. The motion causes a flood of warmth in between her legs and a sharp dart of something she cannot describe in her heart.

 _More._

The feeling makes her moan aloud. Gasping a little at the sound, she pulls back, her face on fire.

 _Wanton._

 _First outright flirting with him, then…that._

 _What would Mam think?_

 _What does_ _Charlie_ _think!?_

She looks up at him, worried, but he smiles down at her, amusement visible in his eyes despite the dim light from the window.

It does not reassure her.

"I should go in, good night," she says in a shaky voice, slipping out of his arms. The smile slides off his face.

He grips her hand, not willing to let her go. "Wait, Elsie." He thinks he knows why she is in a sudden rush. "You've done nothing wrong." She does not meet his eyes, and he wants nothing more than to set her at ease. "I'm not offended, love."

His fiancée bites her lower lip, a sign of her anxiety. "If you're sure…"

"I have never been so sure," he says, squeezing her hand. He has no idea the rumble of his voice causes a repeat of the very feelings that began her embarrassment. "Just one more kiss before we say good night?"

For an answer, she returns to his arms. She slides her hands up to his shoulders as he bends to her upturned face.

"Just _one_ more." Her eyes twinkle and he knows she knows neither of them will be satisfied with only one.

Nor are they.

He kisses her slowly, gently, sending her into a dizzying whirl of _more_.

Whatever _more_ is.

He feels so good against her she cannot help the sighs and hums and yes, the moans that murmur from her lips. From the sounds he makes, he feels the same way as she. She wraps her arms around his broad torso, bringing him closer.

It is then she feels a brush of – what? Well, not his trousers, though the sensation comes from that direction. She hardly has time to wonder at it when her fiancé quite suddenly tears himself from her and turns away, clutching the porch railing.

Her hand finds the wooden trim of the door. Her heart pounds and she swallows, all of her earlier apprehension coming back with a vengeance.

Her corset is very tight around her, and she takes a gasping breath of air.

"Charlie? Did I-"

"I think," he says, his own breath sounding short, "That is _quite_ enough." He turns only just enough for her to see his face. "Good night, Elsie. I love you."

The door to the boardinghouse opens and Mam comes out on the porch. Elsie cannot make any sense of what has happened, confusion, fear, guilt all tumbling together.

Surely she has done something wrong. Why else would he pull away from her?

"Good night," she whispers, before fleeing inside.

He lets out the breath he holds when the door closes. It is plain he has frightened her. Which is the last thing he wanted to do. But his body betrayed him. He can only hope she is not too disgusted with him and his animal instinct-

Charles? Is something wrong?

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair. At least he has calmed down enough to face his future mother-in-law.

No, he says quietly. At least, I hope not. He squeezes the brim of his hat.

Abigail Clarkson stands with her hands folded at her waist. Her face gives nothing away, only gentle concern.

If something _is_ wrong, he tries again, it is _my_ fault, not Elsie's. She has never crossed the line, always behaved well, like a well brought up woman should.

 _Not like me. I am no gentleman._

The memory of days long past in New Orleans haunt him.

What happened? Abigail asks. Her tone and lilt are so similar to her daughter's, it makes it more difficult for him to collect his thoughts.

He is fairly certain Elsie does not know all the details of the – aspects of marriage. Yet. Of course, he cannot be completely sure. They have never talked about it.

Such things are not discussed.

But how is he to explain what happened to Elsie's mother? For several moments, he almost wishes for the day when Mrs. Patmore confronted him about his intentions toward Beryl. That conversation carried less embarrassment than the one before him.

 _This_ one requires a great deal of sensitivity.

Of which he is not sure he possesses any.

Mrs. Clarkson, he begins hesitantly, your daughter is…a beautiful woman. A _very_ beautiful woman. In eight days, God willing, we will be married.

He presses his lips together, willing himself not to squirm.

There are times ( _breathe, Charlie_ ) when we are together that I do not think she knows the…effect she has on me. She has never done anything improper, he hastens to say. It is not her fault.

He stops, not knowing what else to say, praying Abigail understands what he _cannot_ say. She is a mother, he thinks, and has been married twice herself. _She knows about all of this._

It is strange to him that Elsie's mother has a different surname than her unmarried daughters.

To his immense relief, Abigail nods and clears her throat. It is clear she is flustered, but keeps her composure.

I understand. I will talk to her, she says. Tonight. She needs to know these things before she is your wife, and _I_ would rather tell her.

The implication being, of course, rather than Elsie finding out on her wedding night.

Thank you. He puts his hat on, feeling a weight off his shoulders. Good night to you.

And to you, she replies. And Charles, she continues as he reaches the street. He stops.

I know you love her. I expect you to remember that. Be gentle with my girl, she says.

He blushes, clears his throat. Yes, ma'am.

* * *

She cannot look at Mam. Instead, she traces the pattern of the patchwork quilt, feeling the stitches beneath her finger.

 _Every piece fits together like they should. Like…_

Her face flames anew.

So. She scratches the side of her face, biting her lip. So…when he…when just now…

 _This is impossible._

Mam rocks back and forth in the chair. She is so calm, not showing any discomfort. Becky snores on the other side of the bed by the wall.

On the porch…it…I…did…it didn't _hurt_ him?

Her mother had already told her it did not. But she cannot understand if that were so, why did he move so quickly away from her?

No, Mam says patiently. Quite the opposite, really.

It…it felt nice?

Mam laughs, putting a hand to her mouth to keep from waking Becky. She gets up and sits next to Elsie, reaching out to pull her daughter's braid over her shoulder, her eyes full of love.

 _Very_ nice. Lass, he was afraid of what you would think, that you would think him improper.

But you do not? Elsie asks. Mam shakes her head.

No. Perhaps he should have kept more distance from you, but considering how soon your wedding is, that is unlikely. She holds Elsie's hands in hers.

We live in a world ruled by men, she says softly. But you will have more influence with your husband than you might think. Charles adores you, she looks in Elsie's eyes, her expression serious. He loves you, yes, but he also respects you. He will not force himself on you. Not all women are so fortunate.

I know, Elsie whispers.

It is not _his_ attentions that worry her, but her own feelings. Mam listens as she speaks haltingly, trying to explain what she cannot understand herself.

When he kisses me, she says, I don't want him to stop. I can hardly stop myself.

Her mother assures her that what she feels for Charles is natural. And once you are married, she reminds her, there is no reason why you _should_ stop.

They talk late into the night, occasionally breaking into giggles, sharing moments about the men in their lives, how inscrutable they seem one moment, then how open they are in others.

It is very different, Elsie thinks as she drifts off to sleep, to think of Mam as a woman, and not just as her mother.

She is glad of it.

* * *

The ride north of San Francisco is a long one, but not without its joy. Charles rides separately on his horse, next to Elsie and her family in their wagon. For a while he lets Becky ride with him. The girl has a very sweet nature, and is curious about everything she sees. Her frustration and his is that she cannot express herself well in words.

Her sudden tempers cause him to be more patient than he ever thought he could be. He is rewarded one evening when Becky refuses to go to bed before bidding him good night. She kisses him on the cheek and gives him an unexpected hug.

It melts Elsie's heart to see the bond between her little sister and Charles. When they arrive in Petaluma, Becky immediately charms Mrs. Patmore, Beryl, and even the infamous Aunt Ida.

Charles makes most of the introductions between the families. He cannot help the smile that breaks across his face when Elsie and Beryl face each other for the first time.

I'm very glad to meet you Miss Patmore, Elsie says as they shake hands. I've heard so much about you.

Hopefully all good things, the Yorkshire-bred woman says. I can't always trust Mr. Carson to get his stories straight.

The two women exchange an amused glance, remembering the debacle of the house. Charles lets out an exaggerated groan.

You're already plotting against me, aren't you?

Yes, the two say simultaneously, causing everyone else including Patrick, to break into laughter.

Good luck Mr. Carson, Elsie's stepfather pats him on the shoulder. Between those two, you are going to need it.

Elsie finds Beryl Patmore a welcome breath of fresh air. She is much as her earlier letter described, though her sharp tongue hides a warm heart.

Being the youngest, I always had to be a bit noisy to be heard, she tells Elsie that evening. You have an older brother and sister, you understand. She lifts Becky onto her lap and slips her another cookie. It's nice to have someone younger to spoil, she says.

With two days to go before the wedding, nearly all the preparations are complete. The morning after they arrive, Charles catches Patrick and Abigail on the veranda of the boardinghouse, their faces worried.

What is it? He asks. Mr. Clarkson turns in his chair.

Richard should have been here already, he says. He was riding after us from San Francisco, but a man alone on his horse should have made faster time than us.

His tone is light, but there is worry in his blue eyes. Abigail squeezes his hand.

Let's not worry unless we have to, she says quietly. Charles adjusts his tie.

Shall I ask after him? He asks. Perhaps John has heard something, he hears a lot of news before anyone.

Yes, please, Patrick says, looking grateful.

Charles never has an opportunity to see John. That afternoon on the same day, Richard arrives at the boardinghouse.

I am sorry I'm late, he apologizes when they gather together at tea. My horse threw a shoe late yesterday, and I had to wait at the blacksmith's in Sonoma for a new one.

You aren't late, Elsie says. We haven't gotten married yet. We are simply glad you're safe.

Privately, she wonders what really happened. It is not that she thinks he is lying, but he seems distracted, far from his usual directness. More than once someone has to draw his attention to the conversation.

 _If he was in Sonoma,_ she wonders, _why didn't he simply borrow another horse and go back for the other after the wedding?_

She asks Richard this directly as they sit in the parlor, under cover of the others' laughter. Becky has pulled a long string around Charles's big hands, and his fingers are hopelessly tangled.

Her stepbrother sighs, running a hand through his hair. Any other woman would be too anxious about her own wedding day to bother asking, he says. I should have known _you_ would notice. I should have thought of borrowing another horse – it would have given me a reason to go back to Sonoma before returning home. As it was, I was only trying to think of a reason to prolong my stay.

Elsie raises her eyebrows. Oh? And what is there that you found so fascinating? I did not know the making of horseshoes intrigued you so, she teases him.

He leans back against his chair, his hands folded across his waist as he stares at the ceiling. It is true, he finally says. Regina threw a shoe a couple of miles south of town. It took me a while to find the blacksmith. And when I did, he was already helping someone else. A woman.

Something clicks in Elsie's memory. Mindful of the others in the room, including Patrick who has just entered, she keeps her voice low.

Is it my turn now, she asks Richard, to tell you that you have _that look_ on your face? Because you do.

He turns his head sharply towards her. Please don't tease me, he whispers. It's not like that. It's not like Malcolm, or you with Charles.

He puts a hand on his face for a brief moment. She is recently widowed, he murmurs. Still in full mourning, all black clothes. And it was clear to me right away that she deeply loved her husband. I would not expect her to look at anyone else right now, much less a strange man she doesn't know.

But…even as sad as she was, she was beautiful. I…could not take my eyes from her.

What is her name? She lives in Sonoma, I expect, Elsie says. She would not dream of giving Richard a hard time, not when he looks so lost.

 _Or found._

I got from her conversation with the blacksmith that she is a Mrs. Crawley, Richard says. And yes, she lives in Sonoma. The reason I stayed was because I was trying to find out more about her. The day got away from me, so I spent the night there and rode over today. Her late husband was a doctor. As is her father, and her brother. She has a child, a young son.

An ironic smile crosses his face. It seems inevitable that I would be drawn to a woman with knowledge in the medical profession, he says. I heard from the owner of the tavern where I stayed that Isobel Crawley also serves as the local midwife. Well respected in the community, if somewhat opinionated. That's what Mr. Reynolds said, anyway.

She sounds like a strong woman, Elsie says, unable to stop herself from smiling. When I get a chance to go to Sonoma, I'll try to introduce myself. If you want me to.

Would you? I would like to know what you think of her, he says. He sits up in the chair, his eyes sparkling. You could be a spy for me.

Call me whatever you like. But now I'm curious about her myself, she laughs.

"What's so funny?" Charles comes over to their corner, finally free of Becky's string. Elsie takes his outstretched hand.

"Life. Just life."

Charles looks from her to Richard, but the doctor only smiles and gets up, leaving his chair empty. He sits down next to Elsie.

"What were the two of you talking about?" He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand.

"I'll tell you later, but not now," she whispers, a gleam in her eye. "Besides, I don't know if anything will come of it. But I hope so, for Richard's sake."

"How very intriguing," he murmurs. "Very well, keep your secret. I'll know it soon enough."

"You'll know more than that," she replies, before she realizes what she's said. She claps her other hand to her mouth, a rush of pink blooming on her cheeks. "Oh dear, I don't know where that came from!"

He laughs, loving this side of her. He kisses her hand and enjoys the hitch in her breath when he does so.

"You must think me terribly improper," she breathes from under her eyelashes.

"Never," he says, his voice firm. Leaning forward, he brushes the back of her hand with his lips again. "I rather enjoy it. You can be as coy as you like with me."

It is times like these when he is glad of the others' presence.

 _Only two more days._

* * *

The morning of her wedding, she is awakened by Mam's voice, followed by Becky flying onto her bed.

Careful! Beryl's voice booms from the doorway. Don't hurt your sister! Mr. Carson would skin me alive if the bride arrived in pieces!

Laughing, Elsie sits up, giving Becky a big hug and kiss. There is little chance of that, she says over Becky's shoulder. I am not made of glass!

Of course not, you are a Hughes woman. You're made of stronger stuff than that, _mo nighean_ , Mam says, coming over to the bed. Did you sleep well?

Yes. She pulls the end of her braid out of Becky's hands and kisses her sister again on the cheek. She cannot ignore the softness in Mam's eyes, or the tears that shimmer in them.

Come with me, Miss Becky, Beryl calls. The youngest Hughes climbs off the bed and goes with her.

Don't cry Mam. Please. Elsie hears the wobble in her own voice. This is a _happy_ day.

Aye, it is. Abigail takes a deep breath, steadying herself. She traces Elsie's cheek. Your Da would be so very proud of you, of the woman you are, she whispers.

Despite her happiness and her resolve not to cry, Elsie gives in to tears. For Da, who she somehow knows is watching. For David, who she is sure is watching with her father. For Margaret, who is far away but who is so close in her thoughts, and in her heart.

For Malcolm, who if not for the imminent arrival of his second child, would be here.

She embraces Mam. For several quiet moments, they share grief, as well as the bittersweet taste of joy.

Well. Mam finally says, wiping tears from her face while Elsie does the same. Shall I bring you some tea, and something to eat? It would not do for you to be hungry. Not today.

Yes, please. Elsie cannot help but laugh at the way she and Mam both pull themselves together at the same time. And bring some for yourself, if you haven't had some already.

She, Mam, Becky and Beryl enjoy a lively breakfast made by Mrs. Patmore. After, Mam goes to dress Becky before coming back to help her elder daughter.

Is Patrick with Becky? Elsie asks while Mam tightens the laces on her corset.

Her belly flutters with the thought that Charlie will loosen them later.

Yes, and Richard also, Mam answers her. They're downstairs in the parlor. Together, they pull Elsie's dress up – pale grey, with the bell-shaped skirt, the short sleeves and rounded neckline.

It is a dress meant to be worn again, for later occasions.

Setting a comb into her hair, Elsie lets out a breath. It is not a complicated design, but she likes the way her hair is pulled up, off of her neck.

This is for you. Mam lifts a shawl out of a small trunk. Elsie's mouth drops open in shock.

Where did you get _that_?

Her mother smiles, holding up the fabric, pulling it around her shoulders.

Where do you think? Scotland! It comes from Paisley, of course. Your Da bought this when you were still a child. I've carried this for a long time, Mam sighs. Do you remember the one Margaret wore on her wedding day?

Yes, Elsie says, the vision of her sister as clear as though she stood before her. But this one looks so different! She weaves it through her fingers.

Of course it is, Mam says. This one suits you, not your sister.

It does. Its background is a dark purple with reddish tones, which contrasts with her dress quite nicely. The intricate repeated pattern throughout, resembling the curve of an ocean wave, is a dark blue, underscored by thin lines of bright gold.

The Paisley shawls are well known, and much sought after by women in two hemispheres. That Mam carried one with her, across an ocean then a continent, waiting for this day overwhelms her.

Beryl comes in as she tries to compose herself. Oh no, crying again? The flame-haired woman asks, though her voice is kind. Becky and the men downstairs would like to see you if you're ready. They have a surprise for you. You look beautiful, she adds when Elsie turns, clutching the handkerchief Mam hands her.

Thank you. What is the surprise? I'm not sure I can handle another, she jokes as the three leave the room.

I can't say. Beryl's face is impassive, her lips pinched together. Mam holds Elsie's elbow as they descend the stairs to the parlor.

When she looks up, she is very glad of the support.

 _Malcolm!?_

Her brother's boots are dirty and his coat carries a layer of dried mud from the road. But she doesn't care about any of that as she leaps forward. He catches her and spins her in a circle, like he used to when she was younger.

I _never_ …how…what about the baby!? And Josefina? She feels as though her heart will split in two from joy. That he would ride eighty miles just to be at her wedding!

From Mam's expression, she is equally astonished. Malcolm sets Elsie down and hugs his mother. His broad smile mirrors his sister's.

You have a grandson, he says to Mam, who covers her mouth with her hands. And you have a nephew, he grins at Elsie. Born a week ago. He and his mother are well. They and Sofia send their love.

The lad's name is David James, but we call him Jamie, he says. Josefina's mother calls him _Jaime_.

Jamie, like your Da, Patrick says softly. He'd be proud.

And your brother. Richard holds Becky's hand. It is _quite_ a day! Now, I don't mean to hurry everyone along, but-

The groom is waiting, Beryl says. More importantly, the parson. He might leave if we don't get there soon. She tries to look stern, but her eyes are soft.

Elsie walks outside, between Mam and Malcolm. Patrick helps her and the other women into the wagon, and they set off.

* * *

They are married in the front room of Reverend Davidson's house. A church building would have been preferred, but the congregation in Petaluma has not yet built one.

Charles cannot take his eyes from his bride. When they stand facing each other, their hands joined, he feels as though his life is beginning anew. She looks at him as he repeats the vows. She almost looks _too_ serious, but he knows she is listening intently, cherishing every word.

As is he.

It is a relief when John hands him the small gold ring. He nearly kept it in his pocket earlier in the morning, but his friend had insisted on doing his part.

Across an ocean, across a continent, he has carried it. Once he thought of retrieving it from its small box. But something kept him from lifting it out to sit in his hand in New Orleans.

On a foggy morning in San Francisco months ago, he had opened the box and found his mother's wedding ring.

Now on a bright morning, with the sun sparkling through the window onto the floor, he slips it onto Elsie's finger.

It fits perfectly.

 _Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee…thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes…_

They all gather back at Aunt Ida's boardinghouse for a meal prepared by the Patmores. For once, Charles has to force himself to eat.

And not too quickly.

With her family, it is usual for Elsie to sit for hours, to catch up with all the news.

She has to remind herself to not show her impatience.

Fortunately, John and Malcolm offer to drive them to the house when it is not yet mid-afternoon.

 _Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my loves..._

Their home sits on a hill, gleaming white in the sun. Its walls are made of adobe. It is two stories, with wide porches running the length on the upper and lower floors.

The newlyweds wait on the lower porch while her brother and John carry the last of their belongings inside. The two men emerge, and smiling, make their farewells.

The wagon shrinks in the distance. They watch it until even the dust settles back onto the ground.

"Well," Charles says softly, "Do you want to see the inside?"

"Very much," Elsie replies. She is beyond grateful for his poise. That he does not seem to want to rush her.

Though she is certain he wants to.

She would not mind if he did, despite her nerves.

He rubs his fingers together, hoping she does not feel the sweat on his hands. He is sure she can hear his heart beating.

She is a little surprised, but glad, when he picks her up and carries her inside.

* * *

The floors are wide planks and the walls are whitewashed. There are flowers everywhere, little touches made by Mam and Beryl. He tells her that they came two days before, when she was finishing her dress. She gasps aloud at the cast iron stove in the kitchen.

"I thought I was finished with surprises today," she holds a hand to her chest, her eyes wide. "I was wrong." Her eyes shining, she smiles at him. "You didn't need to get me _that!_ "

"I thought you would like it," he says, hoping he has not overstepped the mark. "Instead of having an open fire."

"I love it," she moves closer and puts a hand on his arm. "I never thought I would have one."

He places his hand over hers. "Now you do. If there is ever anything I can give you, let me give it."

She closes her eyes at the feel of his hand cupping her face.

His breath is warm, as are his arms around her.

The room itself is _very_ warm, although with them pressed together, she thinks it may just be him.

"There's one more room to see," he murmurs against her forehead.

Wondering at the size of the wooden headboard, she runs a hand along the bedspread while he leans in the doorway of their bedroom.

 _Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death…_

* * *

They kiss slowly, only lightly holding each other's arms. He is desperate to not push her too fast. To frighten her.

She slides her hands from his elbows up to his shoulders, then reaches up to touch his face. Letting out a gasp, he breaks away, looking down at her. There is a rosy flush to her cheeks. She lowers her gaze from his, biting her already plump lip.

The sight makes him moan aloud.

He kisses her again, harder, deeper, with an urgency she can feel.

 _More._

Once she had stood on the deck of a ship, above the powerful waves. It had frightened her. The feeling of being carried away. What she feels now is nothing, nothing to that.

But she doesn't want to stop, either.

Charles's hands slip down from her waist to span her hips. It is not the first time she detests the many layers between them – the long pantalettes, the stiff crinoline of her skirt.

It is the first time that she knows she can actually _do_ something about it.

Breaking from him, she holds onto him, her hands on his back. His color is high, and he, like her, seems to be having trouble getting his breath back. She sits on the bed, gesturing at her feet.

"Could you help me? With my shoes?"

"Of course." He removes his coat and sets it aside on a chair. Then he uses the bootjack to take off his boots, before kneeling to help untie her cumbersome shoes.

She rests her hands on his shoulders, but quickly moves them up.

She has wanted to touch his hair since the first morning he visited her.

"Elsie," he smiles up at her, and her heart gives a jolt at his endearing smile, the gleam in his eyes. "You are _very_ distracting when you do that."

"Oh," she says, letting go of the softness in her fingers. "I'll stop if you want me to."

"Don't stop, I just wasn't expecting it." He bends his head again to untie her shoes. She wraps a finger around one long curl and lets it go, brushing her thumb along his hairline.

He makes quick work of her shoes. One, then the other is set aside. Then her socks. She gasps when he touches her bare foot. Taking her hands, he helps her stand.

The floor feels blessedly cool.

She is warm, so soft against him. He can feel each ragged breath she takes, all the more when he moves aside an escaped tendril of hair and finally presses his lips against the tender skin beneath her ear that has tortured him for weeks.

" _Ohhhh…_ " The sound comes out a half sigh, half moan. His own body reacts at once, and he jerks forward, his hands pulling her even closer, sliding from her hips to her back, then down to caress the curve of her bum.

Her sighs and moans continue as he ravishes her neck with his mouth. The little flick of his tongue causes her to squeal, a high-pitched cry in his ear. She pushes him back a little. Her hand on his chest, her own chest heaving. He steps back immediately, worried he has gone too far.

"I'm sorry-"

"Charlie," she huffs out a breath, the corner of her lip turned up, "I…I'm fine…I just can't _breathe_."

"Oh." _Thank God._ "Let me help you," he unwraps the beautiful shawl from around her shoulders. He would like to know where it comes from.

Someday.

Not now.

"I'm not sure you're helping there," she says as he drapes her shawl over his coat on the chair. Her tone is dry, but one of her eyebrows is raised in a fetching manner, and her suggestive grin nearly makes him come undone on the spot. He swallows.

"You are teasing me."

"Yes." She laughs shortly, but presses a hand to her belly with another sigh. "I really cannot draw a decent breath…"

She turns around.

His breath in her hair, his hands with hers, the soft fabric of her dress coming down, her petticoats with it. She turns a little, only to rest her hand on the bed for balance as the pantalettes come off. It is as though the glow inside is reflected on the surface of her skin.

It is not embarrassment, not really, that causes her to blush. But she has never felt so much of the open air on her skin, except when she bathes. And for as long as she can remember, she has done so alone.

It is broad daylight, the late afternoon sun golden through the white curtain at the window, and her husband stares at her.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers in awe. She sees it in his eyes and hears it in his voice. To cover her shaking hands, she reaches up and takes the comb out, shaking her head slightly to let her hair down.

The long breath of air he lets out makes her look him in the face again. His mouth is open, and his eyes are dark.

 _More_ , they scream silently at her.

She comes forward and undoes the buttons at the top of his shirt. He stands still, letting her work. His collar and shirt come off. She takes another hesitating step forward, her hand hovering in front of his bare chest.

She can feel the heat of him.

"Touch me," he whispers, and she does, rubbing the curly black hair, feeling his heartbeat. He leans forward and kisses her again, open-mouthed, his hands on the back of her bare thighs.

Her fingertips dance across his chest. There are so many sensations flooding through her she can barely think coherently – his nipples, hard beneath her fingers; his tongue and hers, searching, pressing; his hands squeezing her bum, how _good_ it feels for him to touch her like this, everywhere; the hard, insistent jab of him through his trousers, knowing that it means he wants her as a man desires a woman, and the absolute thrill, the jolt in her belly, that _she_ does this to him.

And that she wants him, too.

"Do you trust me?" he suddenly asks, breathing into her mouth. His hands now on her shoulders.

"Yes," she says, wondering how her voice sounds so deep. "I trust you."

He turns her around in his arms and begins undoing the work of the morning, the laces of her corset. With every one undone, he presses another kiss to the nape of her neck, her back, and down. By the time the garment falls forward into her hands, she feels on the edge of tears.

 _His touch_ , she thinks, _will drive me mad._

 _If that is his intention, I am well on my way to the madhouse._

"Get into bed," he says, leaving a hard kiss on her shoulder. She clambers in, turning over onto her left side, facing him.

The only garment covering her is her shift.

He slides his suspenders off, then unbuttons the top of his trousers. When he removes them, she bites her lip to keep in a gasp.

He sees the look, the hint of fear in her face. Climbing into bed, he pulls the quilt over himself and reaches out to trace her face.

"Come here," he whispers, scooting her closer. Kissing her, he relaxes a little when she wraps her arms around him. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Mmmm, I know," she murmurs. Her heart hammers. She had been fine before, willing and curious to see him, to enjoy being his wife in every way.

But he is so… _big._

She does not want to be afraid, or to make him think she is, but she knows he can feel the tension between them. She runs her fingers through his hair, glad at least that with them lying together she can reach more of him. He sighs, a smile on his face.

"That feels good, thank you," he whispers. So she keeps at it, massaging his head. When she pulls his head forward to rub the back of his neck, he wraps his arms around her and slides down slightly.

Before pressing his mouth below her chin.

" _Tha gaol agam ort_ ," she cries out through half-lidded eyes. He does not stop kissing her, his hot mouth pressing, sucking on her neck, her collarbone. His hands move beneath her shift, one on her hip, pulling it around his, and the other beneath her thigh.

She calls out in a language he doesn't know, and the sound inflames his desire even more. Moaning aloud, he finds the top of her breasts and sucks hard, the thin fabric wet. Keeping one hand beneath her thigh, he moves the other to her breast, to draw her nipple into his waiting mouth.

What is he _doing_ to her, his hands everywhere, his touch driving her mad and then he takes her breast between his lips and she makes a sound that is nowhere close to modest.

Nor does she care right now.

There is wetness between her legs, and when Charlie pulls on her shift, she removes it in haste and tosses it – somewhere.

She'll find it later.

He gathers Elsie into his arms, her arms around his, and they kiss and kiss and _kiss_ until he pushes slightly on her right shoulder and she lays back, her head on her pillow. Then he leans over her and resumes where he left off. Lavishing one breast, then the other one. As he does so, he lays one hand flat on her belly.

"May I…may I…" he wants to simply touch her, to please her and to pleasure her, but he feels he has to ask. "…may I touch you?"

One hand slides up her thigh, and she feels the weight of him. On the surface of it the question makes no sense, but she is in no doubt as to what he means. Mam never told her about him _touching_ her there, not with his hands anyway, but the last thing she wants right now is to think of her mother.

She nods, pressing his head into her belly. "Yes." He sighs and moves up to give her a short, sweet kiss on her lips.

The feel of the hair on his chest against her bare breasts is the most wonderful feeling-

His fingers, oh his fingers in her folds, where no one has ever touched her, not even herself. Her body moves of its own accord, her hips thrusting forward. She has never moved like this before. But it feels so good, so right.

As if she was always meant to be here with this man, her husband, her Charlie.

" _More_ ," she moans, her breath coming faster. " _More, a ghraidh-_ "

Her heat, her wetness, the _scent_ of her. Forget the vineyards outside, he is drunk on Elsie. His wife. His woman who writhes beneath him as he touches, searches, feels the slickness of her, her wetness on his fingers, oh _God_ , she is incredible, moving her hips up in time with his hand, he presses a little harder and she moans, a long desperate sound of want, of need, of _more_ -

His touch is harder, more insistent, and it is what she needs, yes, more of it, _yes_ , he slips one finger inside her and despite the strangeness of it, it feels so good, it is what she wants and yet she needs more, something more, and he curves his finger and his thumb brushes something near the top of her folds, hidden from sight and and and and

She keens, arching her back, shattering beneath him. It is a sight to behold and he knows he will remember it for the rest of his days, her hair wild, her mouth open, her lips swollen as she bucks against his hand, increasing the friction in between them.

He waits to remove his finger until she lays huddled under the blanket, her breath coming out in puffs against his shoulder. She turns her face away from him into the pillow.

"Are you all right?" He pulls a few damp strands of hair off her forehead.

She is. But she has never felt so uncontrolled and as good as it felt, she feels rather ashamed of herself. It is humiliating that Charlie married her thinking she was a well-brought up girl, when just now she's behaved more like some harlot.

"Elsie?"

He sounds worried. It makes her feel worse.

"I…" she swallows, trying to collect her thoughts. "I'm sorry," she whispers, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Whatever for?" He brushes them gently from her face, his thick eyebrows furrowed.

"For…for what I said," she says. It isn't really what she means. _For flirting with you. For the sounds I made. For the way I moved._ "I should not have behaved so."

The thought that she is _ashamed_ of herself hurts his heart.

"Love," he says in a tone that makes her look at him, "you have nothing to be sorry for. I want you to be happy, and I know you want me to feel the same."

She watches his face closely for any sign that he is simply trying to appease her. There is none.

Then she feels a stab of guilt for another reason. "I-I didn't even _think_ about you," she chokes, her tears returning. Isn't it the first duty of a wife, that her husband gets his pleasure? _Mine does not – should not – count._

Mam did not tell her that, but she has heard the lesson from a hundred places. From the stern matrons that somehow always know the morals of everyone in town, the preachers who rail against the wantonness of women.

 _Not even married a day, and I am a failure._

Charles is incredulous. "Of _course_ you thought of me! Do you not think I am happy?" He gently cradles her face in his hands. "Elsie May, you have made me the happiest man in the world. And there is nowhere I'd rather be than here with you."

He hugs her close, rubbing her back, and the movement calms her.

As well as reminding her of other parts of him. She raises her head from his chest. "May I…touch you, Charlie?"

Leaning on his elbow, he smiles. "Yes."

At first her face is serious when she lays her hands on his chest. He closes his eyes as she grazes her fingers over his heart, over the dark nipples.

She is very glad he is not ticklish when she slides a hand over his belly. He leans towards her, and the muscles of his abdomen clench together. Swallowing hard, her heart beats faster at the sight. He is so strong.

 _He is beautiful_ , she thinks as she rubs the back of his neck, caressing the shell of his left ear with her fingers. He hums in pleasure, his eyes fluttering open. He stops her ministrations by kissing her, a long slow gift.

"I love you," she murmurs, enjoying the feel of him against her. She craves his touch once more. It is a surprise to know that giving him pleasure brings it to her as well.

 _That is what he meant earlier._

"I love _you_ ," he repeats. He runs his hand down her side to rest on her hip. She takes the moment to gather her courage and reaches between his legs.

 _If_ _I_ _enjoyed it, then he should as well._

His eyes pop wide open and he lets out a gasp of air. " _Oh._ "

The sound makes her smile.

This part of him, held in her hands, is soft, the skin hot to the touch. As she massages him, it hardens beneath her fingers, and she feels a twinge low in her belly.

She keeps going, moving faster as he seems to like that.

Until he suddenly puts his hand over hers, pulling her fingers from him. "Stop," he pants, his chest heaving.

"Did I hurt you?" she asks, feeling sick, _knowing_ she did something wrong again. He shakes his head.

It takes a great deal of willpower to force coherent thoughts into words, then to form them on his lips. "No, you did not hurt me," he says deliberately, hoping he makes sense. "That-it feels _so good_ , and I have to stop now-"

He licks his lips. He wants her, needs her desperately, but wants to keep his promise and be gentle with her. "Here," he rolls her onto her back again and kisses her again deeply.

She moans against his lips, nipping the bottom one with her teeth. He kisses her again, harder, his hands moving from her breasts to her belly, to her hips then under her legs. He is only half laying on her.

She loves the press of him against her. His manhood is heavy on her thigh. As their kisses grow more heated, she pulls at him, willing him closer. Her legs fall open naturally.

She tries not to think about if it will hurt.

He takes it slow, sliding the tip of him inside her. She tenses, and he waits for her to relax before pushing further. His entire body screams for release but he _will not_ hurt her.

It stings, burns a little. He is so very big, but she lets out a breath, letting herself relax. She wants him to enjoy this, enjoy their love, because he has waited so long and has been so patient with her. His tenderness brings tears to her eyes.

Gradually, he moves until he fills her fully. Looking down at her, he breathes out "All right?" and she nods.

Then he pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. She lets out a little moan, which one glance tells him it is in pleasure and not in pain. He pushes again, more a thrust this time, and the sensation of him inside her loosens his grip on his control.

"Oh _God_ ," he swears aloud. She feels so good, his Elsie feels so good around him, and when he thrusts again, she moves her hips up to meet him.

The sting has gone away, replaced by this new feeling of him, _all_ of him, inside her. It feels nice, she supposes, but when he pushes the second time, it feels similar to when his finger was inside her, and she moans.

There is a rhythm to it, one which they both have to learn. It is not his first time, but nothing he has experienced in the past has ever come close to this. "Elsie," he breathes, thrusting again.

 _This is not an affair, a release from a bad day. Something only to satisfy myself._

 _She is my wife, and I am her husband._

He comes at the thought, thrusting once more, harder, spilling into her. She feels the difference, the rush of him inside, the cry that erupts from his mouth.

Then he kisses her, and she holds him, holds him inside her until he softens.

There is a small basin of water that he brings her, along with a cloth so she can clean herself. He falls asleep when there is still light in the room, and she drifts off before the last light of the day has faded.

* * *

Waking in the night, Elsie does not at first remember where she is. Charlie's arm is wrapped around her waist, and from his breathing, he is deep in slumber. She carefully untangles herself from him and gets out of bed.

She cannot find her shift in the dark, so she pulls on his shirt. She does _not_ want to visit the privy naked.

Sitting in the tiny structure, she gives into her tears and weeps, leaning her head against the wall.

Is that all there is? What he did with his hand, _that_ was – oh, that was marvelous. And he didn't seem to mind. But when he took _his_ pleasure…

At least it didn't hurt. Much.

By the morning, she has slept further and is calm. She is married now, a wife, and there are so many more things to worry about than _that_.

He mentally berates himself for several days for his lack of control. He wants to bring her to pleasure, but when he is inside her, he loses himself. And his mind.

He tries to make up for it by telling her every day that he loves her. How beautiful she is. That the meals she makes are delicious.

Well, two of the three are true, anyway.

The first Sunday after they are married, they go to Sonoma for church. Their home is nearly halfway between the county seat and Petaluma, but slightly closer to the old mission town.

She sits in the hard wooden chair. The Episcopal minister in this little mission is very earnest, but she doubts there is anything he can say that will draw her attention to God.

The night before, Charlie had altered their love-making. Holding himself above her, he had rolled his hips forward, and the _feel_ of him had increased her pleasure…

And it was all for naught. She had had the feeling of a cresting wave, one that never thunders onto the shore.

The maddening thing is that she feels this way even when they are _not_ in bed together. She had watched him on the hillside, walking among the growing vines. Brushing down the horses. Splitting wood, then picking it up, the muscles in his arms bulging.

A girl coughs behind her. Elsie fans herself, glad of the heat in the small room.

No doubt her husband is paying attention to the sermon.

The minister's voice drones on. Various words worm their way into his mind. _The sinless Son of God…man's fallen nature…hear now the words of the prophet Isaiah…_

 _Charlie_ , his wife had cried the night before. The sound of his name on her lips had caused him to spill himself. Before she had her pleasure.

Again.

Does she have the slightest idea what she does to him? He had seen her feeding the chickens as he was coming out of the barn two days ago, and he had stopped dead in his tracks just watching her.

It isn't fair that he is so happy, and she…well, she is not _un_ happy, but she is not as happy as she could be. And it is his fault.

 _Today_ , he vows to himself. _Today it will change. You_ _ **will**_ _find your control, and let her find her pleasure. Or touch her again. It worked on your wedding night…_

 _It can't be today. It's Sunday, for God's sake!_

 _Damn._

He closes his eyes, says a quick prayer for forgiveness for even thinking the swear word. He does not ask for forgiveness for lusting after his wife, because he knows he will be fighting it all day.

This long, long day.

A trickle of sweat tickles the back of his neck. He risks a side glance at Elsie out of the corner of his eye.

She is breathtaking, even in the sensible dress and hat that obscures her hair. He swallows, forcing himself to focus on the lectern, the beams in the roof, the minister gesturing. Anything.

They talk for a while with others after the service. He feels a surge of pride introducing her as Mrs. Carson.

She cannot help but smile when she points Charlie out to one of the ladies. She does listen closely to the others chatting when one mentions Mrs. Crawley, but nothing more is said of the woman and Elsie does not want to pry.

When her husband brings the horses around, she is glad to leave. As nice as it is to talk with others, she would rather be home.

She hopes he does not notice the hitch in her breath when he takes her hand to help her into the wagon.

It is too bad it is Sunday, she thinks. She cannot even weed the garden, or sew curtains or anything to take her mind off Charlie. She squirms on the seat on the ride home, trying to put off the niggling feeling that will not leave her alone.

Mam never said anything to her about desire, either. That it would follow her, like dirt clinging to her feet. That she would want him so terribly at the most inopportune times ( _like today_ ), is something she is not prepared for.

She rather envies that he can take the horses into the barn, unhitch them, and feed them. At least it gives him something to do. He comes into the house long after she has changed into her everyday clothes (and rid herself of her uncomfortable shoes) and set out the bread and cold ham.

He steps into the kitchen. Elsie stares off into space, her thoughts far away.

Never mind their little Sunday luncheon. He wants to drag her to the bedroom, tear her clothes from her exquisite body, and ravish her until she has no voice left.

"Charlie?"

Startled, he jumps. She smiles, her eyes twinkling at him. "Would you like some water?"

She already drank some.

She almost wishes for the cold winters of Argyll. But there is no relief, no respite from the fire consuming her. She hands him a cup, resisting the temptation to rip his shirt off his broad back, to unbutton his trousers, and to watch him reach his pleasure until he shouts in her ear.

Like he did three nights ago.

He drinks the water, glad of the moisture on his dry lips. She is looking down, her fingers pressed together, her ring glinting on her finger.

The cup drops to the floor with a heavy thud.

In one swift motion, he propels her against the wall by the door to the hallway. His mouth is on hers, heavy, hard, and the shock of it is sharp, but _oh_ , the way he kisses her makes her delirious.

She moans, yes _moans_ , her lips parted to let his tongue claim hers.

"It's Sunday," he rasps, dipping his head to taste her neck.

"Yes-I know," she manages to sigh, raising her knee so his can move between hers in the folds of her skirt.

"We-we should stop," he gasps. She is flush against him, the wall at her back.

"Do you want to?"

The question catches him off guard. It isn't a question of _wanting_ , but whether they _must_. He straightens up to look her in the face. Propriety and desire war inside him.

Honesty wins.

" _No_ ," he rumbles, his face red. She will think him impious, what a terrible Christian on the Lord's Day, to want this-

"I don't either," she half-whispers. Her eyes are dark.

He lifts her off the floor into his arms as they kiss. Her skirt and petticoat billow up, and he pulls at them, even as she wraps her legs around him.

Fumbles for the buttons on his trousers before she frees him.

Her corset restricts her, he knows, but she does not seem to care a whit about it. He gropes under her skirt, finds the slit, and-

"Oh God, Charlie, _more_!" she cries out, her back arching against the wall. Her wetness is on his fingers. But that she takes the Lord's name in vain now, here, is what moves him to take her, to join them.

Her cries echoing in their home.

She is close, he can feel the muscles of her sex tighten. He thrusts again. His arms holding her up. She rubs against him, frantic. His manhood, _him_ , filling her.

She means to ask him for more, but she feels as though she is on a cresting wave, the power of it building. And she cannot find the words for what she wants. _I want you here now more yes don't stop don't stop don't stop DON'T STOP_ _ **DON'T STOP**_ _-_

He thrusts into her harder and she keens a long cry of release. Gasping, he thrusts again. His own shouts mingle with her joy.

She is his, and he is hers, and they are one being.

There is nothing but him. When he yells, her voice spirals higher as she feels the thunder of the pounding wave, the ecstasy of reaching the shore.

Of him, her husband, her Charlie, her lover, pouring himself into her.

He hears her shatter again, and he laughs. This is what he wanted, oh _this_ , to give his wife, his Elsie, his lover pleasure, to share it, like they now share a home, and a vineyard.

A name.

They spend the afternoon in their bedroom, in glorious decadence. After they make love a second time, she walks back to the kitchen and collects the uneaten food, bringing it back for them to eat in bed.

She does not bother clothing herself to do this.

They eat, sometimes feeding each other. When a bit of jam drops from her finger to the top of her breast, he insists on licking it off.

Before letting her pull him on top of her, again.

He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Her hand ghosts on his back.

"Where are _you_ going, Mr. Carson?"

Chuckling, he piles the plates and picks up the biggest crumbs he can see on the floor. _Best not make it_ _too_ _easy for the mice._

"The kitchen. Only to put these away, Mrs. Carson."

She lays sprawled on the bed, her pale skin flushed, a dreamy smile on her face. There is a mark on her right shoulder, another under her left ear.

Her collarbone is dotted with the marks of his fervent kisses.

He doesn't know it, but he carries several scratches on his back. Most have already scarred.

A small chunk of hair is missing from the back of his neck, too.

"Mmmm," she sighs, murmuring under her breath, her thumb on her lip. The way he gazes at her from the doorway, she can see the adoration in his eyes.

He has called her beautiful before, but now she knows it.

She already sleeps when he returns. Smiling, he pulls up the quilt and climbs in next to her.

The shadows on the walls tell her that the day is far gone when she wakes. Blinking through heavy eyes, she feels for Charlie, but he is not in bed with her.

"Here, Elsie." He sits in a chair by the wall reading a book, his boots askew on the floor.

"Did you-" she clears her throat, feeling fuzz in her mouth. "Did you milk the cow?"

"Yes, and had the horses drink, and…" he rattles off all the chores that they would normally do on a Sunday.

"You could have woken me," she says, though she is happy he didn't. She feels so warm, so luxurious, so blissfully sated.

And it would have been highly inconvenient to put her clothes back on. She notices with appreciation he only has his trousers on, his suspenders pulled over his bare shoulders. She suppresses a moan thinking of him in the barn half-clothed.

 _Someday..._

"I didn't want to wake you," he says quietly, turning the page.

"Thank you. What are you reading?" she asks as he gets up and climbs back in next to her. "That's not the Bible."

"No," he grins. "It's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Poetry."

"Portuguese? You never told me you learned that language!"

He laughs. "It's just the title. Everything is in English. The poet is an English woman, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Have you heard of her?"

Elsie shakes her head. He taps the page.

"This one reminds me of you." He clears his throat and reads it aloud.

 _How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._

 _I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_

 _My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight_

 _For the ends of Being and ideal Grace._

 _I love thee to the level of every day's_

 _Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light…_

She is in tears by the end. "Oh Charlie," she whispers, "I love you."

"I love you," he pulls her into his arms, brushing his lips on her forehead. "I never dreamed I could be this happy, Elsie, truly. When you found me that night in San Francisco, I knew I never wanted to be apart from you."

"Nor I you," she embraces him tightly.

They fall asleep tangled together, the book at the end of the bed, open to the poem's page.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: About ages. I put Charlie's birth year as 1824, Elsie's as 1832, and Isobel's as 1821. So they're 28, 20, and 31 here.**

* * *

 _ **September 1852, near Sonoma**_

His breath is hot on her neck. She holds his head in her hands, trying to get him to move and kiss her on the lips again, but he resists her.

His tongue continues its slow agony across her rounded breasts, down to the softness of her belly.

"Charlie, _please_ ," she moans, which makes him smile against her skin. To hear his wife's voice when they are together like this has become one of his greatest pleasures. Her accent only grows stronger with her desire.

Which heightens his.

He presses another kiss to her belly, his hands caressing her legs. An even louder moan escapes from her. Looking up, he sees her arms flung over her head, her fingers tangled in her hair.

The sight makes him harden immediately. He swallows, holding back his own need.

 _Only for a moment._

He raises up, kneeling, one knee between her legs. Elsie opens them, opening herself to him, and it takes his breath away.

She is not as insecure as she was on their wedding night, but he would hardly call her bold. But he knows she loves him, loves him as he loves her, and wants him to be happy. She is trying to be less timid in their lovemaking, and he knows the effort it takes.

It has made him more considerate. To think of her pleasure first, more often.

He tries.

"May I…"

" _Please_ ," she breathes out as the tips of his fingers brush the soft curls of her mound. His touch is light, perhaps too much so, but he soon speeds his movements with hers.

Her hips thrust forward and she lets out a small cry when he inserts a finger inside her.

His hands are the only parts of him touching her, and as good as it feels, she wants more. She wants him, she needs-

Her eyes open when he removes his finger before sliding the tip of him inside. "Elsie," he whispers, moving forward, the warmth of his body on top of her. She hooks her arms under his broad shoulders, drawing him down closer.

"I love you," he rumbles above her, their rhythm slow.

Nothing, _nothing_ feels as good as him inside her. His size once frightened her, and she wondered how he would ever fit.

But he does.

Her Charlie, her man, who she sees is trying so hard to think of her. She bites her lip. When they are like this, there are so many things she wants to say aloud, things that she would never say in front of anyone else. She has said things in the throes of passion, but not now, not while she still has her wits about her. She is afraid of what he will think but it feels so _good_ with him moving in and out of her that she can't help it.

"I want you," she whispers into his chest, holding him close. He lets out a breath and instantly thrusts again, harder. "I want you," she repeats, her fingers digging into his back. If anything, his frenetic movement feels even better. She feels the friction of him inside her, the feeling of the cresting wave. "I-want you-Charlie," she half stutters, losing the ability and the will to speak. "I- _yes_ , oh- _more, ah ah-_ "

Her voice breaks into staccato as she shatters beneath him.

God, the feel of her. The walls of her sex tight and hot and wet around him. He loses control completely, and slams into her. His heart explodes when he hears her keening. Letting out a roar, he comes, thrusting into her hard again, then again, feeling himself pouring into her.

Shaking, he thrusts twice more, slowly, joining them fully.

She holds him for a while inside her while they kiss. He is relieved to hear her laugh.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asks softly. "I-I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't, _a ghraidh,_ " she traces a finger down his cheek to his dimpled chin. He smiles and leans his forehead on hers.

"You can tell me you want me _anytime_ you like. In any language you choose."

"I shall," she says through the exquisite blush on her face. Her eyes twinkle. "Now that I know you like it."

Before either of them can go to sleep, they get up, dress themselves once more, and finish eating their lunch.

He goes back to the vineyards then joins her in their large garden, helping to harvest the last of the corn. They will have to wait two years to know if the vines will produce grapes. In the meantime, they will harvest a variety of crops to sell.

* * *

 _ **November 1852, near Sonoma**_

"You don't have to go into town today," Charles says, leaning on the wagon. "I can go on Thursday like I said."

Elsie sighs and pulls her gloves on. "I know I don't _have_ to go today," she mutters, biting back a stronger retort. "But you have work to do here, and I am perfectly capable of going on my own."

"I know," he replies defensively. "But you were so tired last night, and you're white as a sheet this morning-"

"Charlie," she snaps, rounding on him. "I'm _fine_ , stop _fussing_ so!"

She bites her tongue, regretting her tone at the hurt look on his face. Closing her eyes, she lets out a breath. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to worry about me."

"But I do," he says, reaching out and touching her cheek. There is a bit more color there, but she is still pale, he thinks. Shadows under her eyes. "You're all the family I've got."

Blinking, Elsie drops her eyes, feeling tears coming. She does not mean to be waspish with him, to unleash the fury of her tongue. But lately everything he does sets her off. When he complained that dinner was burned several days ago, her words could have peeled the whitewash from the walls.

Then he says something like _that_ , and she melts.

She gives him a hug and does not let go until he does.

He hitches the horses to the wagon, then helps her onto the seat. Handing her the reins, he gives her a small grin. "While you're there, could you find out who won the election? Senator Pierce, or General Scott?"

"I certainly will," she returns his smile. "You want to know if your vote mattered, or if it was in vain. Not that _I_ think much of either man," she shakes her head. "If women were allowed the vote, perhaps there would be a more sensible candidate."

"If women were allowed the vote, all the troubles of the land would soon be settled," he lifts his hat, scratching behind his ear. "And then what would we have to fight about?"

She can't help but laugh. "Flatterer." Clicking her tongue, she spurs the horses forward, and drives down the lane.

 _There will always be something to fight over_ , she thinks. Sun spills through the cloud-covered sky, lighting patches of the road. _More's the pity._

Nerves overtake her as the horses clip along. True, Charlie could have gone to Sonoma on Thursday instead of her. He could have picked up their mail, seen the blacksmith about getting a new bit and horseshoes.

But he has no reason to see the midwife, and she does.

At least she _thinks_ she does.

She has not bled since September. The smell of frying eggs has suddenly become her worst enemy, and her breasts and back ache against the constraints of her corset. And she has taken to falling asleep while she sews, feeling utterly exhausted. From the little she has heard from family and the older women at church, she wonders if she carries a child.

She doesn't know for sure.

If Mam were close by, she would ask her. Beryl has become a good friend. But the redhead is not married, and Elsie knows she would not know the answer she seeks, even if she had the courage to ask.

She nearly wrote to Richard, but the right words would not come to her. And the thought of her brother knowing what she and Charlie-

 _He's a doctor,_ she argues with herself, smiling and nodding at a man driving a passing wagon. _He's seen much of the world, he hasn't been brought up in a sack! He knows you're married!_

 _Yes, but he's also your brother. And he's in San Francisco. Not here._

There is only one reasonable course of action she can take.

* * *

No one answers the door at the small house. She stands for a moment on the porch, half of her wanting to leave.

Steeling herself, she walks around the side and sees a woman in black hanging washing on a line. Trousers, and several shirts.

 _Smaller clothes_ , she thinks. _For a boy, not a man._

Mrs. Crawley? She asks, fighting the urge to bite her lip.

The woman turns, holding the empty basket in one hand, her other hand on her hip. Several dark strands of hair escape from the bun holding them together.

Yes?

Her voice, Elsie thinks, is rather cold. Unwelcome. Are-are you the midwife? She asks.

Yes, I am. And who are you?

Her heart thumping beneath her ribs, Elsie swallows. Mrs. Carson, Mrs. Charles Carson, she says, wondering at the woman's demeanor. She does not _look_ like an unfriendly person. And yet she seems standoffish.

What can I do for you, Mrs. Carson? Mrs. Crawley begins walking back toward the front of the house. Elsie follows, gathering her courage in her hands.

It's a-delicate matter, she says low, tasting the little she was able to eat earlier in the morning in her mouth. She puts a hand on the porch rail.

Mrs. Crawley turns, looking her up and down.

I see. Won't you come in?

Her voice is, thankfully, a little less chilly. She looks to be Charlie's age, maybe a few years older. An Englishwoman by her accent.

The midwife goes in the kitchen while Elsie sits in the parlor. She is glad to sit. She feels a little light-headed and her belly will simply not settle. When Mrs. Crawley emerges with a tray, setting it on her small table, she cannot even muster a polite smile.

Much less a compliment about the room. If she opens her mouth, she is sure her breakfast will come out.

You're positively ashen, the midwife says, the skin around her dark eyes crinkling. She reaches over and unties the knot keeping Elsie's hat on her head. Removing it, she hangs it up, then offers Elsie a cup of tea.

Try to drink some. I assume it's the last thing you want, but trust me, you need it.

Hesitating, Elsie lifts the cup to her lips. She opens them only enough for a tiny amount of the hot liquid to go through. She swallows it very cautiously.

It stays down. She sips again, a little more.

Let me get you some dry bread. Mrs. Crawley goes back into the kitchen before returning. She sits quietly while Elsie eats some of the bread slowly, and drinks more of what is in her cup.

There, do you feel a little better? There's more color in your face. Lifting her own cup to her lips, the midwife drinks some of the hot tea.

Thank you, yes. Elsie holds her cup on her lap. Her belly still feels uneasy, but less so than before. I…I'm afraid you are not seeing me at my best, she says, running her finger along the saucer.

Neither are you. Mrs. Crawley gives her a stiff smile. You've caught me having a bad day, you see. This morning before he left for school, Matthew-my son, she says at Elsie's unspoken question. He tore a hole in his jacket, and I-I shouted at him. And all I could think after was if Reginald were here, I could better keep my temper-

She suddenly turns her head aside, her hand to her mouth, and the room is very quiet.

I am very sorry for your loss, Elsie says. She wonders if she should have said anything, but it seems right to say _something_.

The thought of losing Charlie is too hideous to contemplate.

Thank you, Mrs. Crawley whispers in a shaky voice. She looks down, clears her throat, and takes another drink of her tea. Now, she says with more clarity, perhaps we should talk about you. I have heard of you. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier. I'm sure our paths have crossed before.

That's all right. We rarely come to town, Elsie says. Mr. Carson and I.

A knowing gleam appears in Mrs. Crawley's eyes. My congratulations. I heard of your recent marriage.

The way she says it, it makes Elsie's face flush crimson. A real smile appears on the other woman's face.

My dear Mrs. Carson, there is nothing wrong with wanting to be with your husband often. She looks off into the room, the smile still on her face. Her brown eyes are soft. Remembering.

When I got engaged...I was so in love with Reginald, I felt sick. I was sick with love! Literally, she laughs a little. It seems so odd to think about it now, it really does, she says.

 _She has a beautiful smile. I must write and tell Richard._

It was the same for me, Elsie admits, remembering her own engagement. As if I'd gone mad, or been hypnotized, or something. For days, weeks, all I could think about was him.

 _Not much has changed there, girl._

Well. Mrs. Crawley sets down her cup on the little table next to them. Aren't we the lucky ones?

Elsie has never really thought about it before, but she _does_ feel lucky.

* * *

It is easier than she thought it would be to get to the point. The conversation turns from love-sickness to the real thing.

You have many of the signs, the midwife tells her. You are young, and you and your husband love each other very much. I am certain you are expecting a child, she says with authority. It is early days of course-

Whatever Elsie thought she would feel at the woman's words, she is not prepared to smile, then immediately to burst into tears.

It feels simply overwhelming. She cannot begin to describe the welter of emotions tumbling about inside her. Mrs. Crawley puts a gentle hand on hers.

I do hope, she says quietly, that this is good news? That Mr. Carson will take it well?

It is several minutes before Elsie feels able to speak. She gratefully takes the offered handkerchief and dabs at her eyes.

I believe so, she says, her voice somewhat hoarse. We…have talked about children of course, but I…

 _I did not think they would become a reality so soon._

At the moment she does not feel like a good wife, much less a capable mother.

 _Mother._

 _Mam, I need you._

 _I'm not ready for this._

Mrs. Crawley seems to know what she is thinking. God knew what He was doing, she says. We carry a child for nine months, to give them time to grow, and for us to prepare.

Elsie blinks, her eyes red. I don't know that I will ever _be_ prepared. She tries to swallow the lump in her throat.

You never will be, not really, Mrs. Crawley smiles. Matthew will be nine years old next spring and I pray for wisdom every day. Some days I have it, and some days…she shakes her head. Some days feel like when he was an infant in my arms. I would look at him and feel _terrified_ that he was mine.

They talk for a little while until Elsie calms down. She thanks the midwife for the tea and her kind words. Walking out to the porch together, she feels as though she needs to apologize for being too familiar. After all, the woman is little more than a stranger to her.

And yet it feels as though she has known Mrs. Crawley for years.

Thank you for listening to me, the older woman says softly as Elsie replaces her hat. I…don't often speak of Reginald. It's too hard. He's only been gone since March.

You miss him, Elsie says, her gloves in her hands.

Yes. Sadness and love are equally mingled in her eyes. And yet I know he would not want me to walk in the shadow of death forever. He would want me to live. For my own sake, as well as for Matthew's.

I understand, Elsie whispers.

The memory of Da and David is still sharp, cutting her heart at the most unplanned moments.

Do come and see me again, Mrs. Carson, the midwife says after a short pause. If you have any questions, or just wish to chat.

Thank you, Elsie says. Although I like to be called Mrs. Carson, it seems better suited for Sundays.

She cannot really explain what she means. It seems too formal for this woman – who, she reminds herself, will likely be present when her child is born.

 _Our child. Mine and Charlie's._

Her belly flutters, this time with anticipation.

If not Mrs. Carson and Mrs. Crawley, what should we call each other? The midwife asks.

My name is Elsie. You can call me that, if you wish.

Mrs. Crawley smiles and shakes her hand. It suits you, Elsie. Please call me Isobel.

* * *

The flames leap in the fireplace when Charles shifts the logs. It is not terribly cold at night, but the heat of the summer has gone, as well as the lingering warmth of autumn.

He does not want Elsie to get cold.

She sits in their bed, absent-mindedly twirling the end of her braid in her fingers.

"You've been very quiet today," he remarks, climbing in next to her. "Since you got back from town."

"Have I been?" she asks. "I didn't mean to be."

Plumping the pillows, he reaches for her to draw her into his arms. She scoots over with her back to his chest, facing the flames. He slides his arm around her waist. He can feel the heat of her body through her shift.

"Is everything all right?" he says softly into her ear. A red spiral curl dangles behind it, and he cannot resist moving it aside to brush the vacated spot on her neck with his lips.

"You have made me happy, Charlie," she says, her voice sounding thick. He continues exploring her neck, planting feather-light kisses. "I know I've been-sharp with you lately, but I do mean it."

"I know," he murmurs. "I feel the same, love." He moves up to her cheek. It has surprised him, the temper she's displayed, but he never thought their marriage would be smooth sailing always.

No marriage is.

And right now, with her in his arms, he feels totally, blissfully, happy.

"You said this morning I was all the family you had," she says.

"Mmmm," he hums, his nose against her jawline.

"Well, it seems that's not quite true."

He is so busy tasting her it takes several seconds for her words to sink in. He stops, raises his head, leaning on his elbow. She turns to look up at him, the glimmer of the firelight in her eyes. "I went to see the midwife today. Mrs. Crawley. She told me…"

"Elsie," he looks at her in complete awe. "Are you…are we… _truly?_ " he whispers.

When she nods, a small smile on her face, tears fill his eyes. "My God." He leans over and kisses her sweetly, lingering on her lips. "My fair wife, my love, _tha gaol agam ort_."

The sound of him speaking her tongue brings tears to her own eyes even as it makes her laugh. "I love you too," she touches his face, feels the hair on his bushy eyebrows.

He pulls her free hand to his lips and kisses it once, twice. "You're going to be a mother."

There is a sparkle in her eyes he has never seen before. "Aye, and you a da."

The thought makes his heart leap, then sink. "I hope I'm a good one." He pictures walking through the vineyard, a little girl at his heels, two auburn braids down her back. Or milking the cow in the barn while a small boy sits nearby, playing with a cat. The boy looks up, smiling, with dark blue eyes…

Elsie pulls his chin to face her again. "I'm happy," she whispers. "And frightened, and excited and worried. All at once. We…we'll learn together."

He relaxes and wraps his arm lightly around her waist, his big hand spanning her belly.

"That we will."

She sighs, already on the edge of sleep. "Good night, Charlie," she murmurs.

"Good night," he gives her another kiss, on her hairline.

He lays against the pillow. His heart is full. Listening to the low snaps and cracks of the fire, he watches the light flicker on the ceiling.

 _A father. I'm going to be a father. I wonder what he will be like. Or she. Hmmm. Either way, I will be happy. Our child, mine and Elsie's._

 _The baby will be born an American. I wonder what Mother would have thought of-_

"Elsie?" he asks, suddenly thinking of a question.

"Hmmm?" she mumbles on the edge of sleep.

"Who won the election?"

There is a long silence, and he thinks she's dropped off to sleep.

"I didn't think to ask."

His laughter shakes the bed.

* * *

 **A/N: For the record, Franklin Pierce (Democrat) won the 1852 presidential election. It was a boring election apparently, marked by the candidates and their associates impugning the character of the other.**

 **So clearly nothing has changed.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Just a couple of household items here – I still don't own Downton Abbey, in case anyone was wondering.**

 **Also, this is a reminder that quotation marks are not used for any conversations, EXCEPT for when Charles and Elsie talk to each other. And a few small exceptions.**

 **Thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for her suggestion that hopefully will make the rest of the conversations easier to read. And thank you to those who commented on Tumblr about this – that's why I asked. JustSterling, just for you I think I'll make this note longer…:)**

 **There is a time jump here, and there will be more in this story as it progresses. At some point, I have to get to the main part of the story.**

 **Thanks to you all for reading, and reviewing this story! Please continue! Your reviews make me happy!**

* * *

 _ **June 1853, near Sonoma**_

The afternoon sun floods the vineyards, the rolling hills. The blossoming clematis on the side of the house shows off its purple flowers.

Richard sighs, shifts his weight on the overturned pail he sits on. He has read the same page in _Oliver Twist_ fifty times, but Mr. Brownlow, Rose and Nancy have not yet left London Bridge. Turning his head, he looks through the half-shut barn door at the house. He hears nothing but light wind and the quiet thump of the animals behind him.

And snoring.

Charles sits on another overturned pail, his back against the wall, his face slackened in slumber. His head is tilted back and his mouth is open.

Grinning, Richard shakes his head. _Finally._ He knew how much his brother-in-law wanted to stay awake until everything was over, but the man has not slept since dawn yesterday.

He lets out a yawn himself. The warm spring sunshine relaxes him, and rest is tempting. He slept for a few hours during the night, but it was only after knowing Elsie's contractions were not progressing.

 _You can't sleep now! What if she needs me?_

 _Abigail and Isobel know what they are doing. If I'm needed, they will send Miss Patmore out to get me._

 _It's_ _ **Isobel**_ _, is it?_

A wry smile turns up the corners of his mouth. He tugs at one end of his mustache.

 _You'd best be careful you don't call her that to her face. Or refer to her by her first name in front of someone else._

He runs a hand through his hair and rubs his itchy eyes, scratches the stubble on his chin. Mrs. Crawley is a fine midwife. He trusts her with Elsie, but he can't help worrying.

He had stayed in the room as Elsie's labor began, but she had eventually asked him to leave. It was not because she didn't trust him, he knew. It was merely she had felt more comfortable with her mother and the midwife.

Understanding that, he has kept vigil with Charles ever since.

The men had stayed in the kitchen until the late morning. The prospective father had become increasingly unnerved by the sounds coming from the bedroom.

Truth be told, so had Richard.

So now they are in the barn.

Oh, he has heard - and seen - worse. _Much_ worse.

But Elsie is his sister, if not by blood, then certainly by love, and he hates with all his medical knowledge he can do nothing to ease her pain.

Perhaps it was a wise insight on her part to keep him at arm's length. He sits and attempts to read as the afternoon drags on. Charles sleeps and continues to snore.

-Can I get you something, Doctor?

Miss Patmore stands in the barn doorway with a plate piled high with ham sandwiches and the other half of the cherry pie she made yesterday. Richard shoots to his feet, the book dropping from his hand and thumping onto the dirt.

-What is it? Is something wrong? He asks, looking past her at the silent house.

-No, nothing like that. Both Mrs. Crawley and Mrs. Clarkson said it shouldn't be too long now. Mrs. Clarkson sent me to see if the two of you needed something to eat.

For a moment Richard is confused, before he realizes that "Mrs. Clarkson" refers to Abigail.

 _You need to restrain yourself. You've shared a single ride with the midwife from Sonoma, and had one conversation with her. Most of which was about Elsie._

 _Does Isobel even know_ your _first name?_

-That's very kind of her, he says to Beryl. –Thank you. We had breakfast this morning, but nothing since.

He picks up the book and dusts it off. The red-haired woman turns and smiles fondly at the big man leaning against the wall. Charles's black curls are plastered against his forehead. His snoring, if anything, is louder.

-It's about time he slept. Numbskull.

Beryl grins when she sees Richard eyeing the pie after he's eaten three sandwiches.

-If you want some, eat it now. Once Mr. Carson wakes up, he'll eat the rest.

-I _will_ have a piece. You are a fine baker, Miss Patmore.

The two of them sit eating and not speaking. Richard badly wants to ask how Elsie is, but if the women inside think her ordeal won't last much longer, he knows all too well what she's going through.

He has seen it before.

-All right. I lied.

Richard swallows a bite of cherry pie and frowns at her.

-What do you mean, _lied?_

-Mrs. Crawley practically bit my head off! Beryl exclaims. -I thought she was going to chase me out of the room! Elsie's mother was more polite. She asked me to tend to you and Mr. Carson.

His heartbeat slows down. –What did you do?

-Nothing. She claps her hands together, getting rid of crumbs. Just told Elsie she shouldn't scream so loud. That she should save her strength for when the baby comes.

-Tell me something. He presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. Did Mrs. Crawley shout at you, or did Elsie?

-They _both_ did. The midwife told me to get out, and Elsie swore at me in two languages. I can't understand Gaelic, but I know she wasn't singing me a lullaby!

 _Thank God. She's going to be fine._

Richard bursts out laughing and falls sideways onto the floor. His peals of laughter echo throughout the barn. A cat meows, then scampers after a mouse who's nibbling at the crumbs.

-It's not _funny_ , Dr. Clarkson. Beryl glares at him. I was only trying to help!

Charles startles awake. His eyes are bleary, and his hair is wild.

-Wha? What's going on? He then sees the woman sitting by the door.

-BERYL! Why didn't you _wake_ me!?

-Steady on, Charles! Richard grabs his arm. She wanted to let you sleep. You needed it. Nothing's happened yet, anyway.

-Really? Nothing yet? He looks at Beryl for confirmation, and his face falls when she nods. -How long will this _last_?

-The first birth is always difficult. Richard sits on the floor while Beryl hands Charles the sandwiches. He tears into them, ravenous.

While he eats, Richard tries calm his fears. To the doctor's relief, his brother-in-law listens.

-But she's in pain. And there's nothing I can do for her. Charles sags against the wall, distress in his eyes.

Richard tells the two about a recent medical discovery.

-A doctor in Edinburgh noticed the benefits, but it was only earlier this year that its use had a greater influence, he says. -Her Majesty Queen Victoria was given chloroform before the birth of her son, Prince Leopold. It was a great success, apparently.

-Too bad she didn't have it for her previous seven births, Beryl mutters.

-Could Elsie use it? Do you have some? Charles asks eagerly. Richard shakes his head.

-I don't have any, unfortunately. And if she is as close to giving birth as Miss Patmore says, I think it might be too late for it to be of use to her, even if I did have it. Maybe for the next child, God willing.

-I doubt there will be another child after this one.

Both men turn to stare at Beryl.

-What in _hell_ do you mean by that? Charles asks in a dangerous voice, obviously trying to control himself. Richard closes his eyes.

 _Not helpful, Miss Patmore._

-Elsie was still shouting loudly when I left, the woman says. –Mostly at me. I couldn't understand all of it, but I clearly heard her say that after she got out of bed, she's going to murder you, Mr. Carson.

-She didn't _mean_ it, Charles. Richard quickly says. -Women…say a lot of things during labor.

He bites his tongue to keep from laughing. He can only imagine what's come out of Elsie's mouth in the last few hours.

Charles covers his face with his hands, unconvinced.

They sit talking of other things. The vineyard, Beryl's mother and Aunt Ida and their ongoing rows. The yellow fever decimating New Orleans.

Richard is giving them news from San Francisco when Isobel appears in the doorway. Her eyes show exhaustion, and her bun has come loose entirely, leaving her dark hair tumbling down her back.

The doctor tries and fails to keep from staring at her. Fortunately, her attention is elsewhere.

She smiles at Charles.

-Elsie wants to see you, Mr. Carson.

The words have hardly left her mouth and Charles is past her, flying through the yard and into the house. He doesn't shut the front door, which swings open, squeaking madly.

-Is she all right? And the baby? Beryl asks, her voice high from worry.

-They are _both_ fine. Isobel breaks into a brilliant smile.

-Thank Heaven, Beryl murmurs under her breath. She looks down, overcome with relief. –And thank _you_ , Mrs. Crawley. I expect you and Mrs. Clarkson are famished, not to mention Elsie. I'll make something for you all.

She picks up the empty plate and heads into the house.

Richard feels his heart beat again. _Thank you_ , his light blue eyes say to the tired brown ones before him. If only he could thank her properly. But words seem inadequate to the task.

He silently takes Isobel's hand and pulls it to his lips.

The midwife does not look away from the doctor's gaze. Or remove her hand from his.

* * *

Charles runs into the house without feeling the floorboards beneath his feet. He almost knocks into Abigail, who is shutting the door behind her.

-Oh! Sorry, he gasps when she stumbles.

-No matter. She laughs, puts a hand on his arm. Congratulations, Charles. She was wonderful.

She gestures toward the half-open door and pats him on the back. –Go in.

He wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers and catches his breath.

Before losing it when he enters the room.

Elsie sits up in their bed. Holding a bundle in her arms, her expression is one of rapturous wonder. Strands of auburn hair stick to the side of her face, her skin is blotchy and red, and her nightgown is off one shoulder.

"Are you all right?" He manages to gasp out. _I thought she was beautiful before, but it didn't compare to this._

She looks up, a smile blooming across her face. "I am now. Your son takes after you. Stubborn. Arrives precisely when he intends, and not a moment sooner. And that certainly wasn't _my_ voice I heard when he finally got here!"

A lump forms in his throat. "A son?"

Tears shimmer in her eyes even as she smiles. "Yes. Samuel." Her voice wobbles when she says their son's name for the first time. The name they had agreed on.

She nods at the side of the bed, beckoning him closer.

He sits down gingerly on the calico quilt, thinking of how different this moment is from yesterday evening when her contractions worsened.

 _A day ago. A lifetime ago._

She shifts the bundle in her arms, a little clumsily, he thinks. Still better than _he_ would, he is sure.

"Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" She whispers.

Samuel's face is red. And wrinkly. He has a tuft of dark hair on his head.

For the second time in his life, Charles falls in love at first sight. He touches impossibly soft skin on the infant's cheek. Marvels at his own forehead reflected in front of him, his hands in miniature. Elsie's nose. He smiles when the baby twitches, his little brow furrowed.

"He wrinkles his nose like you." He meets Elsie's eyes, and they kiss. "I love you."

"I love you, _a ghraidh_ ," she sighs as he pulls her braid over her shoulder, kisses her temple.

"May I hold him?" he asks softly.

Elsie grins. "I've held him for long enough. Now it's _your_ turn."

They laugh a little at the awkward transfer before Samuel is cradled in Charles's big hands. He bends over and brushes his lips against his son's hair, his heart overflowing with pure joy.

"He's so…light," he says, mesmerized. Elsie snorts out a laugh.

"Eight-and-a-half pounds is _not_ light," she runs two fingers down Samuel's arm. "And look at his shoulders – once they were out, the rest of him was easy. He'll be a big man when he's grown."

A cold chill runs down his back. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

"Yes, Charlie," she leans against him. "Just tired. Mam said Isobel is the best midwife she's seen." She tucks her chin over Charles's arm. "She helped me very much. Even when I…thought I couldn't go on."

She closes her eyes in weariness.

 _-I can't! Tears stream down her face. The pain makes her double over, and she grabs at the foot of the bed, to grip something. Mam catches her hands._

 _-Yes you can. I know it's hard, lass, but you can do this. You_ _can_ _._

 _But Mam's words do not reach her._

 _She is afraid. Afraid her strength is giving out. Afraid that the baby is stuck, will never come out. That she and the little one will die._

 _Afraid she will never see Charlie in this life again._

 _-Elsie. Isobel wraps an arm around her, keeping her from falling. The midwife's voice is right at her ear. Stand up. Stand_ _ **up**_ _._

 _-I…can't… She gasps, taking a gulp of air. Her legs are like water._

 _-I won't take no for an answer, Elsie Carson. You_ will _stand up, and you_ will _deliver your child._

 _Somehow she finds the strength to stand, to shuffle back onto the bed. And within the hour Samuel takes his first breath outside her body._

To see him now in Charlie's arms, she thinks, is nothing short of miraculous.

"I must thank Mrs. Crawley before Richard takes her home," Charles says. "I thought she would surely ask for his help, but she surprised me."

"She would have, if she thought she needed it," Elsie touches Samuel's head. She cannot seem to stop touching him. To know he is here, that he is _real_. "She respects doctors, but she trusts her own experience as well. And I trust her."

"With good reason. She-" Charles stops when the baby blinks and moves his mouth. "Hello, lad. Are you awake?"

He lowers his voice. Anyone else, Elsie thinks, would sound like they were whispering, but Charlie's firm baritone never seems to go below a normal person's speaking voice. But she loves hearing it. She always has.

To her delight, their son seems to like it too. He blinks again, holding one eye open.

"Hello, Samuel," Charles holds him closer, breathing in his sweet scent. More than once in the past few months he had tapped gently on Elsie's belly and felt a kick in return.

But now the baby is here and he's _looking at him_. "Do you know me?"

"Of course he does. He knows his Da," Elsie kisses Samuel's head, traces his tiny ear with the tip of her finger. "Do you want him to call you Da, or Papa?"

Samuel is still looking at Charles with one eye. He blinks again, and opens the other slowly. His eyes are not focused, but slightly crossed.

"Da, since that's what you will call me when you talk to him." He smiles, then suddenly feels tears coming. He hands the baby back to Elsie.

"What's wrong?" She asks as he presses his hands to his eyes. Charles lets out a sob and forces himself to breathe.

 _She is fine. Samuel is fine._

His relief is overwhelming. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I was so scared," he whispers. "Even with Richard explaining what was happening. I felt like tearing the wall down this morning when we were in the kitchen, and you-"

He swallows and looks at her through red-rimmed eyes. "You were in such pain. And I kept thinking it was all my fault. It _is_ my fault you went through that. I'm sorry."

They sit close together, but Elsie scoots closer. Brushes her forearm against his. "It was not _all_ your fault, Charlie. I seem to remember certain events of last autumn." A slow smile forms on her lips. "I know _I_ was very enthusiastic. So were you." She sighs. "Yes, it was painful. But truly, it doesn't matter now."

She leans forward, and Charles kisses her, feeling some of his worry ebb away.

They are interrupted by a noise from Samuel. Breaking apart, they both laugh looking down at him. The infant wraps his tiny fingers around one of his father's big ones.

"I see how it will be," Charles rumbles, wagging his eyebrows. "You won't let me have a spare moment alone with your mother. You'll keep her all to yourself!"

"But after you sleep," Elsie whispers, "you won't mind if I'm with your Da now and again, will you? We mustn't let him get lonely."

Letting Samuel grip his finger, Charles shakes his head. "I…I can't believe he's ours."

A single tear trembles in Elsie's eye before running down her cheek. She kisses her son's forehead. "You are our gift. We love you," she whispers, kissing him again and rubbing her cheek against his.

Charles listens as she begins to hum. Samuel peers intently at her, his fingers gripping Charles.

* * *

Elsie's mother holds her newest grandson only a short while. Beryl is much too impatient, and is not afraid to demand her turn.

-I will have plenty of time to hold him, Abigail smiles as she hands him over. –That is, if Charles and Elsie still want me to stay for a while.

Elsie squeezes Charles's hand. –We _do_ want you to stay, Mam. Biting her lip, she gives her mother a knowing glance. –We will both breathe easier having you here for a while.

-Welcome, young Samuel Hughes Carson, Beryl says. –You don't look like a numbskull to me. Then again, you have Elsie as your mother. Most likely you have her brain. Definitely her wits.

Charles groans theatrically. –Your Auntie Beryl doesn't think very highly of me.

-I think better of you now, she replies. –Of course I hope the vineyard is a great success, but _he_ -

She gestures at the squirming infant – _he_ is the best thing to grow in this place.

* * *

The wagon rolls quietly down the road in the warm evening, clouds blocking the sun. Isobel is glad she let the others convince her to eat, then go home. Part of her wants to stay, to make sure that Elsie is all right, that the first few days for mother and child are smooth.

But she needs to go home, too. She is exhausted and needs a good night's sleep in her own bed. And she needs to see Matthew.

-Are there many other women due soon? Richard – Dr. _Clarkson_ – asks, flicking the reins again.

Numbly, she tries to think. -Senora Dolores, Mrs. Williams, and Mrs. Benziger, she says.

And someone else that she cannot think of.

She would be able to think of who it is if she was not so tired.

And if the memory of the doctor kissing her hand did not fill her mind so.

It did not feel untoward, or inappropriate in the moment. And yet she _felt_ something.

Something she did not think she would ever feel again.

* * *

 **A/N: Soooo...this chapter ended up being more about other people than about Chelsie, even though they were the center of everything. Sorry...**

 **Nods to both of my siblings in this chapter - they both have kids, and I don't. When my sister was in hard labor with her second child, a nurse at the hospital literally told her to stop screaming so much.**

 **Yeah, that didn't go over too well.**

 **And when my brother's first child was born, my mother didn't stay over the first night my sister-in-law came home with the baby. He told me he had never been so relieved as when Mom got to their house the next morning.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: First of all, I apologize for the long delay. I'm trying to get to the main part of this story, but I keep finding things to say before I get there!**

 **This chapter was something of a struggle, even without the different point of views and the time jumps. Because Elsie is so young in this story, I thought it would be unrealistic to portray her as "having it all together", for lack of a better phrase. I doubt even in canon she started out in life the confident woman she is in her later years. I hope I will be forgiven for going out of character a bit.**

 **More notes on ages – Matthew was born in 1844. John's birth year is 1827 (twenty-six), Richard's is 1825 (twenty-eight), and Beryl's is 1829 (twenty-four). Becky's birth year is 1841, so she is around twelve here.**

 **Everything here about babies, etc., is stuff I've observed or heard from people who have kids.**

 **Historical notes: "Hired girls" were girls or women who lived and worked with families in homes and farms. From what I've read, they were something of a status symbol, something more for the middle class (the Lincolns had hired girls for a number of years before he was elected president).**

 **Stephen Douglas/The Kansas-Nebraska Act – The diminutive senator from Illinois was a forceful advocate of the idea of popular sovereignty. This was the idea that citizens in states or territories should be the ones to decide whether there would be slavery or not. Until the 1850s, states being admitted to the Union of the United States were deemed either slave or free by Congress, so as to keep the political balance equal between them.**

 **The original text of the song "Wee Willie Winkie" was written in the Scots language, in 1841. The poem was written by William Miller. He was born in Glasgow in 1810.**

 **Independence Day in the U.S. ~ July 4** **th** **.**

* * *

 _ **Autumn 1853, near Sonoma**_

She did not know it would be this hard.

The farm work, the vineyard, the endless chores, even keeping the house now seem absolutely easy in comparison.

It is not that she thinks Samuel is a difficult baby (although she doesn't really know). It is simply that she never thought before he was born about how _dependent_ infants and young children are. When he cries, or frets, it is mostly she who calms him. Charles, darling man that he is, thankfully can also soothe their son at times, and often rocks him in the wee hours of the morning or late at night so she can get some sleep.

But if her little lad cries because he is hungry, only she can soothe him. And he is _always_ hungry. Many times no matter what Charles does, Samuel will not be satisfied, and his wails grow ever insistent until she gets up and feeds him.

Elsie feels fortunate that it is not a terrible struggle to get their baby to eat. After the first few days after he is born, with help from her mother, her son learns to nurse. It is a relief to everyone. Especially to her. She has heard horror stories of infants who never latched, of children wasting away, or dying because they never learned to suckle a breast, or their mothers had no milk to give.

At least she does not have to worry about that.

Between Charles, their neighbor Mrs. Cavallo, a couple of other women from church and Beryl (who comes once a week, happy to escape from the boardinghouse and eager to see her friends), she has plenty to eat.

She is proud that she still helps with the crops, milks the cow. Cooks, bakes, cleans, sweeps, sews. Does her share. All the while carrying Samuel with her.

If only she wasn't so _tired_.

Her husband worries.

Even when she sleeps his wife doesn't seem to rest. He is forever having to coax her to sit, to rest, to let herself heal a bit. She seems even more adamant than before about having a clean house, that she not even think of sleeping until everything is in order.

"You are so thin," he says one evening when Samuel is nearly three months old. "It's nothing for me to lift you in my arms." His arm is wrapped around her, and he moves her braid aside to kiss the nape of her neck. "I can practically see your spine under your skin." He runs a finger between her protruding shoulder blades.

She shifts a little, suppressing a giggle. " _Och_ , you're tickling."

"I don't want you to fade away," he continues, his concern in his voice. Elsie glances over her shoulder, her eyes soft.

"I'm not going anywhere, Charlie." Her eyes return to Samuel, whose little mouth is firmly attached to her left breast.

Moments like these are what she has come to cherish. The quiet, the peace. When she is not trying to figure out how to bend the stove to her will (she hasn't yet, but she is determined), or weeding the garden or making soap.

 _I have to mend his good trousers before Sunday._

"You're doing it again," he says, resting his chin on her arm. "Fretting."

Relinquishing her bottom lip from between her teeth, she takes a deep breath. "I am not," she says with a touch of frost. "I need to remember to fix the hole in your trousers before Sunday. That's _all_."

"You should not have to worry about that," he parries. "Never mind my trousers, the Lord will not cast me out of His house because of a tiny hole."

At one time, he would have reminded her about the mending. But lately it seems she's been getting worse. Two nights previously, he woke to find her out of bed, not with Samuel, but in the hallway sweeping by the light of a flickering candle.

The dark shadows under her eyes give away her fatigue. He just doesn't know why she won't admit she is tired, and ask for help. He has suggested hiring a girl to come work for them.

He has not had the courage to bring up the idea since.

"I won't have you looking less than your best on account of me," she says, feeling more upset than she knows she should over something so trivial. Her emotions seem always just under the surface, spilling out when she least wants them to.

"Elsie," he hesitates, then plunges in anyway. "Maybe if you had help-listen, I know you don't like the idea, but Mrs. Cavallo told me…their daughter Ines-"

She snaps her head in his direction, her eyes wide with anger. "You _didn't!_ Charlie, I told you I do _not_ want help! Why do you insist on this? How many times have I told you? I won't have you spending your money on me!"

 _As if I am some lazy, shiftless wife who cannot manage her own house, husband and child without help!_

He swallows back the hurt at the sting in her voice. "I didn't hire her. Mrs. Cavallo simply said that if you needed help, Ines would be willing to work for you. She doesn't have to live here, you know, and she wouldn't even have to come every day-"

"That is not the _point!_ " She half-whispers, mindful of Samuel. Tears form in her eyes.

Mam never had anyone to help _her_. She kept a clean house, tended her children, saw her husband decently clothed. And all with much less money and more hardship than Elsie has ever had to deal with as a married woman.

 _Isobel manages without help, too._ And _without a husband._

When Charlie first brought up the idea of a hired girl, she was aghast. Why would he think of such a thing? Did he not think his wife capable of running a household?

She banished the idea out of hand.

It is not just the humiliation of him thinking she cannot cope. But she remembers the struggle her own family went through, having to leave one country and go to another just to survive. And she cannot bear the thought of her husband spending his much-saved money on _her_ , not when they still wait to see if the vineyard will be successful.

 _And if it is not? And we have to start again? What if we have little money to do so, all because_ _ **I**_ _could not run a house on my own?_

 _We would be destitute. And it would be_ _ **my**_ _fault. Not his._

 _He would hate me._

She sniffs, and Charles reaches around her to wipe the tears from her face. He hates to see her like this. She tries so hard, and gives herself so little credit. Her mind is always on the next task, what needs to be done.

He thinks in another life she would have made an excellent housekeeper, overseeing a large house in Scotland or England. Dozens of maids at her disposal. For a moment, he indulges the vision. Seeing her walk through a great hall in severe dress, keys dangling from her chatelaine as she admonishes a maid in a firm, but gentle, tone.

But Elsie sniffs again, and the vision fades away. He sits in bed, his crying wife in his arms, and he does not know how he can convince her to see his suggestion is _not_ because he thinks she cannot run their home.

He thinks she will wear herself to the bone before she will admit she cannot do everything.

 _What if she gets so weak she makes herself ill? Samuel needs her strong._

 _I need her strong._

 _She keeps_ me _steady, doesn't she know that? She is not the weak one. I am._

"Mrs. Cavallo told me about Ines," he says, smoothing Samuel's wild tuft of hair with his fingers. "I said nothing to her." He brushes a soft kiss on Elsie's cheek. "You are the strongest woman I know. But even the strongest woman can't do everything."

His gentleness makes her feel worse.

"I should be able to look after our bairn, you and the house by myself," she mumbles thickly, turning her head so as not to drip tears on the baby – who, blessedly, still suckles in contentment. "Many women do it every day, and with much less help than I _already_ have! Mam was here for weeks, and since then-"

"'Should' nothing," Charles rumbles, a ghost of a hint of a growl on his lips. "You had a difficult time, and you are still recovering. You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of. I just don't want you to get tired," he whispers.

Her first instinct is to argue. But she is already tired, and the effort to contradict him is too much.

She gives in, if only to appease him for a while. Ines comes three days a week to their home to help with the washing, cleaning and sometimes to muck out the barn. The girl does help, though Elsie wishes she did not have to tell her _exactly_ what to do every time. Still, she cannot complain. Ines, unlike her parents, was born in America and can speak English without much of an accent.

* * *

 _ **December 1853, near Sonoma**_

The sun is out on a Sunday afternoon, brightening the landscape. When Charles, John and Matthew come up the hill from the vineyard, Charles is happy to see the women sitting outside.

-The hills are as green as Ireland, John comments wistfully. –It's wonderful to see it now. I hope next spring it looks just as pretty.

Charles represses a sigh. _If you weren't leaving, you could see it for yourself._

His friend, somewhat surprisingly, has sold his store in Petaluma. He has decided to move to San Francisco. Beryl teases John when hearing the news, asking if he's going to the city to find a wife like Charles did, but the younger man simply smiles indulgently and shakes his head no. He's got a lot of the world to see, he says, before finding a wife and settling down.

Charles knows he cannot stop John from leaving. And that it would be unwise to lecture him. He has an inkling that John is entranced by the city on the bay and its wilder elements. Petaluma does not hold many charms for a young bachelor.

Guilt gnaws at him as well. He has never made friends easily, and that is something he and John share in common. Since his marriage, he feels he has neglected his friend. He wishes they could have seen more of each other, but with both living such different lives, perhaps it was inevitable.

He worries about his friend, knowing his quick temper. But he also feels rather selfish, knowing that it was _he_ once who left his friends, to seek out a different path. He is the last person who can tell John Bates what to do.

But he will miss him.

-You're always welcome to come visit, he says, putting a hand on John's shoulder. –Anytime. Elsie wanted me to tell you she's counting on you to come back next year after the harvest, if only to keep me from drinking all of our wine myself!

John laughs. –Of course I'll come visit! And I'll bring all of my friends with me!

-Do you have many friends in San Francisco, Mr. Bates? Matthew asks, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes.

-None just yet, John tells the boy. –But I intend to.

The women watch from their chairs at the corner of the house.

-I will thank Mr. Carson myself before we leave, Isobel says. –But could you thank him from me as well, for showing Matthew the vineyard? It was very kind of him.

Elsie smiles, looking up from her sewing. –I certainly will. He didn't mind, I'm sure. He wanted to show Mr. Bates before he left.

She leans over a little, peering at Samuel, who is busily waving his arms and legs in the air. –Your turn will come soon enough, lad.

-Enjoy him when you _can_ keep him close. Isobel's eyes are soft. –It seems like yesterday Matthew was that age. He'll be _ten years old_ next year! Where did the time go? She asks, leaning against the back of her chair.

-No matter how old he is, he'll always be your baby, Beryl says. She gets up and sets the unfinished sleeve on her chair. Bending over, she scoops up the baby, who gurgles. –Come on, young Master Carson, let's go visit the cats in the barn. She sets him on her hip and glances at Elsie. –Is it all right if I take him with me?

-Go, Elsie giggles at her son's expression, his wide eyes staring up at her friend. –He's quite happy at the moment.

Beryl walks off slowly in the direction of the barn, careful to wrap part of her shawl around the baby. The two women can hear her talking to Sam, but cannot catch the words. Elsie watches them, love in her heart for the two of them. _My wee lad, do you know how loved you are? Da and I, your Gran and Papa, your uncles and aunties…_

She swallows, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. It overwhelms her at times, the love she has for her tiny man. For _both_ men in her life.

The two women do not speak for several minutes.

-How are things with Ines? Isobel asks, breaking the silence. Elsie sighs.

-All right, I suppose. She isn't… _bad_.

-High praise indeed. Isobel's tone is so dry her friend laughs.

-She is a nice girl. And when she concentrates, she works hard. But often I catch her daydreaming and have to remind her of the task at hand! I know Charles wanted me to have help, and I do now. And she _has_ been helpful, she admits. –But when she is here I feel I'm forever looking in on her, making sure she is doing what she's supposed to, rather than me working on something else or resting.

-Maybe you need to hire someone else, Isobel suggests. –Someone with more enthusiasm. A girl to live here all the time.

- _You_ don't have help, Elsie argues, rankled.

-I've had several years of practice, her friend reminds her, calmly sewing, looking up only to squint into the sun. –And my house is not as large as this, nor do I have a farm or a vineyard to look after. And I know what you're going to say, she warns when Elsie opens her mouth. -If Charles can afford it, why not hire a girl? Just for a while? It doesn't have to be forever. Just until you get your feet under you.

Elsie presses her lips together. –I should not _need_ help, she murmurs, feeling shame creep over her again. –Mam never had help. Maybe some women would be proud of having a hired girl, but I am _not._

-This is a matter of pride for you. You are proud and stubborn, Elsie Carson, Isobel chides her gently. –I understand what you feel, but there is no harm in taking help if you need it. She stops when she sees tears on her friend's face.

-I don't know what is wrong with me…I was feeling better, but lately I've ached all over, Elsie whispers, her nerves in a tangle. –I cannot sleep, and I know I've been keeping Charlie awake. And then on top of everything else, Samuel has started fussing when he nurses! I never had to worry about him before!

-How long has this been going on? With Samuel? Isobel puts down her sewing on her lap, a line between her eyes.

-A few weeks. He's had four teeth appear, but this started before then.

Even though the men and Matthew are some distance away, and Beryl is out of sight, Isobel lowers her voice. –How long have you and Mr. Carson been intimate since the baby was born?

Elsie's face reddens. Despite trusting Isobel, she is still sometimes caught off-guard by the woman's candor. –Several months, she whispers, her face feeling as though it is on fire. –September? Not-not too soon, Charlie waited for me to heal.

 _ **I**_ _was the one who could wait no longer._

He has been exceptionally gentle with her, which she has been grateful for, especially early on. But there was that night in October…

* * *

 _The baby sleeps soundly in his wooden cradle. Charles comes into the room and smiles down at him, sees the little arms raised above his head. While he removes his boots, he is startled by the feel of Elsie's arms encircling him, her breath on his back._

" _I was waiting for you," she whispers, in that voice he finds impossible to resist. When he turns, he bites back a moan. Her hair is down, flowing past her shoulders. In the dim glow of the firelight, her eyes gleam like that of a cat. He slides his hands down her sides, over the curves of her hips. She has put on more weight in the last few weeks. There is more color in her cheeks._

 _Her kiss is insistent, her mouth opens, and his tongue slips inside. The feel of her breasts through her nightgown and his shirt makes him gasp._

" _Charlie," she whispers, her hands clutching at his shirt, fingering his suspenders. "Come to bed." She kisses him again, her teeth slowly grazing his bottom lip. Going over to the bed she gets in, not bothering to pull down her shift when it rides up. It gives him a view of her legs that he has not seen in months._

 _He sheds his clothing and joins her without bothering to grab his nightshirt. There is a fervor to her kisses that he has rarely felt in their marriage. When she wraps her arms around his shoulders and digs her fingers into his hair, he breathes out and holds himself above her._

" _A ghraidh, I want you," she whispers, raising herself on her elbows, trying to move closer to him. He takes a shuddering breath, and his eyes are wild._

" _I don't…don't want to hurt you," he gasps. Her heart melts. She rolls partway onto her side, then sits up, him still on his hands and knees. She kisses his head softly._

" _I know you won't. You never do."_

 _He shakes his head slowly. She can_ say _that, but he knows better. If he took her now the way his body is screaming at him, he would hurt her. That is the last thing he wants to do._

 _She dips her head to capture his lips once more._

" _Elsie," he sighs softly as she lays down again, pulling him with her. Her mouth, the taste of it, the taste of_ her _is intoxicating. His nose brushes her chin and she hums as he nuzzles her neck._

 _He does not want to hurt her, but he cannot stop. He nips at her throat, grazes below her ear with his teeth, his tongue swirling on her soft skin._

 _He laps and sucks hard on the top of her breasts, making her cry out. She will have marks there the next day. He kisses her belly, his large hands spreading her legs apart. Sliding one hand beneath her shift, he finds her hidden folds._

 _His fingers are feather-light._

 _The more he touches her, teases her, the worse the ache for him is. She wants her husband. Desperately. Needs him, all of him._

" _A ghraidh,_ _please_ _," she begs, her mind and speech nearly incoherent. "More, Charlie-"_

 _He enters her with the thought that he will be gentle. But she is so wet, so ready for him, and she cries out in pleasure when his hardness fills her._

" _Yes," she moans, "_ please _-"_

 _Somehow he keeps a slow rhythm. She presses on his back, her nails scraping his skin. A high-pitched sigh escapes from her lips. He jerks, thrusting forward harder, and she moans beneath him, whispered words in Gaelic. He thrusts again, more erratic-_

" _God!" Her head is thrown back against her pillow. One hand clenches his shoulder, the other is twisted in her hair. "Y-es-"_

 _She keens low. He feels so good,_ so good _inside her, and that he gives her this gift freely while denying his own makes her love him all the more. She forces herself to unwrap her leg from around his torso, giving him greater leeway._

 _He gasps, moving his hips faster, but not too much. She comes apart in one long extended moment. Breathing out his name._

 _By the time he finally gives in to his own pleasure, she has reached hers twice._

* * *

Elsie glances up from staring at her lap, meeting Isobel's eyes.

-What? She asks, wondering at her friend's smile. –What does our son's fussing have to do with-

She stops, her heart skipping several beats. Her eyes widen.

And she suddenly _knows._

Knows that she carries another child.

Putting a hand to her mouth, she feels tears coming to her eyes. It is not fear or disappointment or any gloomy feeling that overwhelms her. It is happiness and joy, and love.

 _Charlie said the one thing he wanted as a child was a brother or sister. I was happy with my brothers and sisters, and love them all dearly._

She sees Beryl come around the corner of the barn, chattering away to Samuel.

 _My baby._

 _But then, he isn't_ the _baby anymore._

-Is it possible? She whispers, dabbing at her eyes. –So soon after…do you really think so?

-I do, Isobel says gently. –I have helped more than one mother deliver a child scarcely a year after her last. I know you don't like the idea, Elsie, but you are _certainly_ going to need help. Especially next year at the harvest. If you like, I will help you to find a suitable girl.

* * *

 _ **January-August 1854, near Sonoma**_

In January, an Illinois senator, Stephen Douglas, introduces a bill in Congress that would allow the settlers in Kansas and Nebraska territory to decide if they should have slavery. The passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act that spring threatens the balance between slave and free states.

The growing sense among many people, including the Carsons, is that the law will make it likely that slavery will spread further west. California is a free state, but there are vast swaths of territory between it and the East that have not yet been admitted to the union either way.

As much as the political landscape is disquieting, there are other things much closer to home to think about.

Charles is both overjoyed and terrified to learn their family will grow to four. He knows that how the vineyard will produce will determine if they can stay on the land.

Ines comes to the Carsons' home throughout the winter and into the spring. Her help, little as it is, keeps Charles's mind at peace, and keeps Elsie off her feet at least some of the time.

Beryl comes as often as she can. She wishes _she_ could come and live with them, she tells Elsie more than once. But her mother needs her in Petaluma. Stubborn Aunt Ida has recovered from a bout with pneumonia, but the older woman does not have the energy she once did.

-We wish you could stay, too. Don't worry about us, Elsie says one winter's day, squeezing her hand. –We'll get by. Your family needs you, too.

Beryl says Samuel is a quiet baby. Most of the time he is, except when he is hungry. He has a belly laugh that his parents never grow tired of. They are often woken early in the morning by his little voice babbling from his crib.

In a matter of days in February he goes from rolling on the floor to crawling.

Even with his ability to move, he is also content to sit on the floor, playing with spoons, his father's boots, or the cat – although after pulling Stringbean's tail, he is less eager to share the feline's company. Charles loves to read to him in the evenings.

More than once Elsie finds them both in the bed, sound asleep, the tiny boy sprawled on the big man's chest. Both snoring away, their mouths open.

She talks to Samuel all the time. She is not sure he understands any of it, but every night when she sings "Wee Willie Winkie" he looks up at her to listen.

One evening in April, when there is still light outside, she hums by the cradle as it rocks, then begins to sing quietly:

' _Hey Willie Winkie, are ye comin' ben?_

 _The cat's singin grey thrums to the sleeping hen,_

 _The dog's speldert on the floor and disna gie a cheep,_

 _But here's a waukrife laddie, that wunna fa' asleep!'_

She grins at her boy, who whimpers, struggling, yawning, rubbing his eyes. She rubs her belly and feels beneath her loosened stays the persistent kicks of Samuel's brother or sister. Stifling a yawn of her own, she keeps singing.

 _Wearit is the mither that has a stoorie wean,_

 _A wee, stumpie, stousie, that canna rin his lane,_

 _That has a battle aye wi' sleep afore he'll close an e'e-_

 _But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me._

She bends over with some difficulty, and kisses Samuel on both cheeks. Straightening up, she lets out a knowing laugh when he blinks and smiles at her.

-Ooh, laddie, sleep for your poor 'mither'! She catches his waving fist and blows a raspberry on his hand. He giggles, his dark blue eyes shining.

-Mama.

She freezes, his hand still at her lips. – _What_ , Samuel?

-Ma-mama.

His little voice is clear. Elsie picks him up out of the cradle and fairly smothers him with kisses, laughing.

It is not long before Charles hears his son call for him, though the bairn almost never says one "Da". More often both names come out in a tangle: dadadadadadamamama.

May brings the first flowering of the vines in the vineyard. It is very encouraging, with many appearing. It is a welcome sign that the harvest later will be a good one.

Mam, Patrick, and Becky arrive in June. Elsie's sister is delighted with her young nephew, and he instantly takes a liking to her. She is very gentle with him, having had practice with Malcolm's children, and is always proud to hold him – though taking him from her arms is more of a struggle.

As Sam begins to take his first teetering steps, it is his Aunt Becky who follows him around to pick him up when he falls.

The biggest question on his first birthday (aside from how much of Beryl's cake will end in his hair) is whether Elsie will go into labor. She does not, though Charles constantly worries she will. Mam and Richard try to keep him calm.

For two more weeks Elsie wakes each day hoping she will meet her child. Their second child, even in the womb, is a very different from his or her older brother. Samuel rarely kicked, and worried his mother by how little he moved. _This_ child hardly ever stops.

The afternoon before Independence Day, Richard rides like the wind to Sonoma. Isobel is at the house for only three hours before the youngest Carson makes her hasty entrance.

Margaret Abigail Carson weighs almost nine pounds.

-And still, Elsie says to Mam, - _She_ was easier than her brother. Thank God.

She lets out a sigh, tracing her finger on her daughter's face, her tiny lips. Outside, the sun is setting, the western sky red.

 _Like her hair._

-Gentle, gentle, she murmurs to Samuel. He softly pats his sister's head, looking bemused at all the eyes watching him.

-Ba, he says, making them all laugh.

–That's right, she's the baby now. Poor lad, Beryl grins. -You'll never get all of your mother or father's attention from this day forward.

Mam picks up her grandson and cuddles him as Charles comes in the room again.

"Where's Richard?" Elsie asks him when he closes the door. "I thought he'd be beating down the door behind you."

"I don't know," Charles replies quickly. Too quickly. He avoids her eyes and walks over to kiss Samuel in Mam's arms instead. He then sits down on the edge of the bed and gazes down at their daughter adoringly. "He must have gone for a walk, or something." He touches little Margaret's cheek.

 _How is it possible to love someone so much, so quickly?_

Elsie sighs, rolling her eyes slightly. Part of her wants to let it drop. Mostly because they have an audience. But a greater part of her wants her curiosity satisfied. "You're a hopeless liar."

"Why do you say that?" He asks, his eyes big. His ears are turning red, and she bites back a laugh.

"Charlie, both you and I know _you_ know where my brother is right now."

"It's not important," he mumbles, his eyes on the baby. "I can tell you later-"

"Not one hour ago I gave birth to her," she reminds him calmly. "You can tell me now."

-Yes, by all means, tell us now, Beryl pipes up from the corner. Charles glares at her before looking back at his wife.

"He…he was in the kitchen."

"Oh?" Elsie raises her eyebrows. "And what has his attention in there? Surely a new baby is more fascinating than the stove."

Charles meets her eyes, his gaze inscrutable. "But not, apparently, more fascinating than Mrs. Crawley."

Beryl drops a book onto the floor with a loud clunk. – _What!?_

-Shhhh! Elsie quiets both her friend and her infant daughter, who blinks at the noise.

-I knew it. Abigail says with a grin. Elsie barely hears her mother over Beryl's voice.

-Was he _kissing_ her, Mr. Carson? Don't tell me you went blundering in there and-

"Please tell me you didn't interrupt them," Elsie says to her husband. He looks affronted at the very thought.

"I did _not!_ I have more sense than that!" He blusters. "As a matter of fact, I backed out of the room and came right back here. I doubt either one of them heard me. I was just…surprised, that's all."

-Aha! So they _were_ kissing!

-Beryl, _please_ , Abigail frowns at her, Samuel on her hip.

Elsie lets out a laugh, holding Margaret close and kissing her sweet face. "Welcome to this family, love," she whispers. Charles cups their daughter's small head in his hand.

"Your Uncle Richard does want to see you, very much. He's just rather busy with another lady at the moment," he whispers.

* * *

Richard returns to San Francisco several days later. Mam stays until late July, helping Elsie and Charles with the little ones, and the vineyard. After she goes home, Isobel visits as often as she can.

-Did you speak with Mrs. Williams last Sunday? She asks Elsie as they gather the washing, one warm August afternoon. –Last week she said her niece Eliza could come and help you.

-I did, Elsie sighs, pulling hair out of her face. Samuel grabs her skirt. –Eliza decided to go back home to Napa City after all.

-Oh. That's disappointing. Isobel frowns as she picks up the basket and they go back into the house. While Elsie sits and nurses Margaret, her friend plays with Samuel.

-I know I'm not as exciting as Matthew, Isobel says to him. –But he will come with me on Sunday after church. You can play with him then.

Isobel's son is very patient with Samuel, and the little boy follows him everywhere.

-There is another girl, a friend of Eliza's from home- Isobel begins, but Elsie interrupts her.

-Please, I cannot think about hired girls anymore, she sighs, leaning her head against the back of the rocking chair. –Not at the moment. Besides, my brother has been very vague in his letters lately. What _is_ going on between the two of you? And don't you dare try to tell me it's nothing!

Her eyes twinkle.

A blush colors Isobel's cheeks. She pats Samuel on the head and gets up from the floor.

-Oh really, it is not 'nothing' as you say, but there is no news to tell you. Not now, anyway.

She sits on a hard wooden chair. –We-we're not engaged. He would like to be, but I could not give him the answer he wanted.

-Richard asked you to marry him? Elsie asks quietly. Margaret lets out a soft coo, and the sound makes her smile even as her heart sinks. _So that is why his letters have been rather glum._

-He did. And…I do like him. Very much. Isobel folds her hands. –But...I'm not sure how Matthew feels about it. Nor I, to be honest. I've found I like to be independent.

She does. It is one thing to be a wife, and enjoy the social aspects of that role. But she has a reputation now of a woman who can care for herself, and for her son. And she does not feel quite ready to give that up. Yet.

She always has been a free spirit. Her father never treated her much different than her brother Edward. Reginald admired her strong character, and encouraged her to always say what she thought.

Richard is the same way.

She never thought she would meet another man who treated her as an equal.

Looking up at Elsie, she smiles, feeling a twinge of guilt. –I suppose you think I'm being rather unfair to him.

-No, Elsie gently moves Margaret to her lap. –It would be unfair for you to agree to marry him without being sure.

Elsie is disappointed, mostly for Richard's sake. But she knows he would not want a woman who cannot enter a marriage wholeheartedly. And she knows Isobel would not agree to it unless _she_ was fully ready to do so.

The women are quiet for several moments before talking of other things.

On her way home, Isobel thinks of the conversation with Richard once more.

* * *

 _She hates to see his face fall, the light in his clear blue eyes fading._

 _-I am sorry, she murmurs, her voice shaky. -Truly, I am._

 _He tries to smile. -I know you are. So am I._

 _The memory of their kiss runs through their minds._

 _-I hope we can still be friends._

 _She hates how feeble the words sound, even to her._

 _-Of course. He reassures her. –Write to me whenever you wish. And may I write to you? He asks._

 _It is not an absurd question. He knows how the gossip spreads from the postmaster in a small town, how everyone knows if an unmarried woman receives letters from an unrelated man._

 _-Yes, please do. She hopes she does not sound too eager._

 _She could care less what women in Sonoma think, or say._

 _He holds his hat in his hands, at a loss for words. –Well. I must go. It's a long ride back to San Francisco._

 _Climbing down her porch steps, he goes out to the hitching post. Something – she doesn't know what – compels her to follow him._

 _-Dr. Clarkson. He turns, his hand on the horse's bridle. –I hope you know how honored I am. Any woman would be fortunate to be your wife. You-you deserve a woman who returns your affection properly._

 _-Thank you._

 _He mounts up, securing the reins in his hands. Part of him simply wants to ride away, hard and fast, leaving his heartbreak behind him. But he cannot resist one last look._

 _At her deep brown eyes that say so much without her saying a word._

 _ **I am sorry I hurt you.**_

 _He almost wishes she felt nothing for him._

 _-You are a woman who knows her own mind, he hears himself say. –It is an admirable trait. I cannot despise you for that._

 _She blinks, one hand on her fence._

 _-I have never met a woman like you, he says. –You are truly exceptional._

 _He turns the horse around, facing east. –Please give Matthew my regards. God bless you._

* * *

Arriving home from visiting Elsie, she makes tea. Matthew runs in the door, his clothes damp. He and his friend William Mason have gone swimming again, and he rattles on about their adventures while devouring several cookies.

 _My dear boy,_ she thinks, smiling. _You always lift my spirits, even when you don't try._

When he goes out to pump water, she goes into the parlor. The small box Richard left her still sits in the drawer of the desk where she put it. She has never opened it, assuming inside is a ring.

But she is wrong.

There is only a short note and a tiny bundle, wrapped in a soft cloth.

It is a single pearl.

Holding it in her hand, she reads the note.

 _This reminds me of you._

* * *

 _ **September 1854, near Sonoma**_

"You want to hire her."

Elsie's voice is sleepy as Charles climbs into bed.

"Yes, I do. She's young, I know, but she works hard and…" he wraps an arm around her waist. "I think she deserves a better place to live than where she is now."

Elsie rolls over and touches his face. "You have a soft heart."

He watches her face intently. "Maybe. I know how you feel about it, hiring someone on. It would be different, having someone not related _living_ here, living with our family. If you don't want-"

"Charlie." She leans on her elbow, her braid hanging by her ear. "We have talked about this for the better part of a year. I told you, I have changed my mind about this." She bites her lip. "I know I cannot be the best wife to you, or the best mother to our children without _some_ help. And this harvest means everything to us, I know. I won't have you worrying about me when you're in the vineyard morning, noon and night."

He hesitates, then kisses her softly. "Mrs. Williams said she could be here by the end of the month. The lady she works for won't let her go until then.

"What of her family? She's only fourteen. A girl," Elsie says, Charles's hand on her hip.

"They're dead. Her mother and sister to the cholera, then her father to the fire in Sacramento two years ago," he said sadly.

"Poor soul," whispers Elsie. She looks to the corner where their daughter, who they have started to call Maggie, sleeps. Samuel snores in the trundle bed. "Was there no one else to care for her?"

"No. The family were immigrants, apparently. From Yorkshire."

Smiling, Elsie kisses him back, feeling his stubble beneath her lips. "I'm sure _that_ had nothing to do with you wanting to hire her."

"Of course not," he grins. "I think you'll like her. Even if she's _English_."

* * *

Anna Smith looks younger than her age. Slight, with golden hair and blue eyes. Despite her appearance, and seemingly mild manner, she possesses an indefatigable spirit. And, Elsie learns from the first day she arrives, she is not easily daunted.

She takes Anna quickly around the house and barn, showing her everything that the girl will likely be helping with.

-It looks like a lot, but you'll soon get used to it, she says in the kitchen, showing the girl the stove. _The bane of my existence._ Elsie's heart sinks when she hears Maggie squalling from her cradle. She can see Sam sitting on the porch, playing quietly with one of the cats.

-I have to take the baby, she says, not waiting to explain further. She hurries to her daughter. Both of her children do not like to wait to be fed.

She hums to the baby, relishing her sweet scent. For a few minutes, all is quiet. Then she hears Anna gasp.

-No, not _there_!

Something shatters loudly onto the floor. It is followed by Sam bawling. She can hear Anna – barely – trying to comfort him, but he will not be comforted.

 _Of course he needs me_ now, _when I'm feeding his sister!_

She stands up and places Maggie back into the cradle. The baby begins to cry at once. As Elsie hastily buttons up her dress, racing back to the kitchen, she thinks she will not be surprised if Anna runs out the door, never to return.

The kitchen is a mess. A sack of flour has spilled, bathing half of her son and the floor in white, along with a glass fruit jar. Sam wails from his seat in the middle of the table. Anna is delicately picking up the shards of glass from the floor.

-He walked in here with the cat right when a mouse jumped from the shelf, the girl explains. –The cat of course went for it and missed, but upset the flour and the jar. It scared him, I think. I set him on the table so he wouldn't pick up glass.

Elsie picks up her boy. Other than having flour all down his front, he seems to be fine. He buries his face in her chest, spreading flour on her.

Maggie screams from the bedroom. Sam hiccups, still crying. The sweet scent of cherries permeates the room, and the red stickiness drips from the shelf onto the white dust on the floor.

She almost feels like crying herself.

-Mrs. Carson, simply tell me what you need me to do, and I'll do it. Anna calmly sweeps up most of the flour, and wipes the edge of the shelf with her apron.

Elsie swallows, forcing herself to concentrate. –Thank you, Anna, she says, rubbing Sam's back and kissing him. –I need you to take him-

-And clean him up, Anna holds out her hands and takes Sam. Thankfully, he does not reach for his mother. –Should I bring him to you, then?

-Yes, please. Elsie breathes a sigh of relief at the girl's steadiness.

-Right. Let's get some of this flour out of your hair and off your face, young man, Anna says cheerfully to Sam. –Then you can give your mum a kiss _without_ covering her with it, too.

The woman and girl look at each other in understanding.

Elsie feels a weight lift off her shoulders. Going to feed the baby, she knows that everything will be fine.

* * *

 **A/N: Posting this in haste, so if there are any major mistakes I will fix them later.**

 **Peace and love to you all.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Groveling apologies for the delay on this. Other things took over for a while, then real life, then writer's block, then more real life, etc. And lately I feel like everything I'm writing is second-rate.**

 **But enough of the doom, because there's none of it here! Well, maybe a little…**

 **A couple of people guessed a plot point that happens here. I'm sorry to meet your expectations.**

 **Not a lot of Chelsie here, I'm afraid. Time marches on, and the plot required focusing on other characters, at least for this chapter.**

 **If you have time, a review would give me quite a boost. Thank you to you all!**

* * *

 _ **Autumn 1854, near Sonoma**_

The first harvest of the grapes is one Charles knows he will remember for the rest of his life. Elsie is beside him often, carefully helping him pick the ripe ones.

It is no surprise to him that she learns quickly which ones are ready, and which should be left for another day or so. She teaches Anna, who is another fast learner.

Maggie is carried on her mother's back. Charles and Elsie start calling her their little papoose.

Samuel loves the vineyard. He cries when his parents or Anna carry him back to the house after a day of exploring. Once, he frightens them all by disappearing. A frantic search ensues, ending when Charles finds their boy asleep beneath a tree marking the boundary between the vineyard and the barley field beyond. Elsie insists on keeping him with one of them after that.

The biggest challenge the older ones have is to keep _him_ from picking grapes.

-In time, lad, Charles ruffles his hair before setting his son on his broad shoulders. –You'll get your chance.

Beryl comes twice and helps out, too. –I would come again if I could, she says. –But Aunt Ida's ill again, and…I do not like leaving my mother alone to deal with her. She's one tough old bird.

Isobel and Matthew arrive unexpectedly on a cool Saturday morning. When Elsie apologizes for not being ready for a visit, the midwife shakes her head.

-Nonsense! We're not here to call on you, we're here to help!

And they do. Charles is happy to have another pair of hands picking the grapes, and Elsie is grateful to Matthew for looking after Samuel. The older boy is very patient with their son.

In the end, despite all their help, Charles does hire two men. But only for the end of harvest.

Even he, novice that he is, can see it is a bountiful one.

The process of turning the grapes into wine is a more daunting task. The fermentation, getting the right temperature. Mr. Cavallo's instruction is priceless.

-You don't have to show me how to do this, Charles tells him late one night in October in the Carson's new wine cellar, surrounded by oak barrels. –You have your own to look after as well.

The older man slaps him on the shoulder. –I know you would do the same for me, he says. –But someday when you can help someone else, do it.

 _ **January, 1855**_

A gentle rain falls on Charles's shoulders as he leads the mare, Missy, into the barn. He hangs up the bridle, then brushes the animal down. Muddy, the chestnut in the stall next to her, whinnies.

-I should feed you too, Charles tells him. –That would only be fair.

-I already fed him, Mr. Carson.

Charles turns so fast his neck cracks. Matthew climbs down from the loft, brushing hay off his trousers.

-Matthew!? What are you doing here?

The boy crosses his arms. Charles would describe him as a thoughtful child, usually happy.

But he does not look at all happy. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his blond hair is sticking out everywhere – something Charles recognizes. _No doubt he's been running his hand through it._

-I walked here after school, Matthew says. –I came out here to the barn because…because I wanted to be alone.

-Does your mother know you're here?

The boy shakes his head. Charles pats Missy and walks closer to him.

-Well, you had best hurry home. She'll be worried.

Matthew looks away, out toward the open doors. His face crumples as he tries not to cry.

Charles's eyes widen in alarm. –What's wrong? Is she all right?

Matthew nods vigorously, holding his arms close to his body. –She's fine. But I…she was angry, and _I_ got angry, and shouted at her. Then I ran here. I would've gone to William's house…it's closer, but his mum's ill again.

He takes a shuddering breath and rubs his face, running his hand through his already wild hair.

-Does Elsie know you're here? Charles asks as gently as he can. Anger and guilt are visible on Matthew's face.

-Yes. But I…told her Mother knew I'd come. I told her she had to go see Mrs. Jones.

-So you lied to my wife, Charles says, a hint of ire in his voice. Matthew flinches.

-Yes, he whispers.

-Why?

-B-because, the boy stammers, -she's friends with Mother. She-she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't listen to me if I told her the truth.

Charles puts a hand on his shoulder. –You're wrong about that. Elsie is very fair. She'll listen to you.

Matthew looks up at him.

-And so will I, he says. He steers him into the house.

The dampness seems to cling to everything, making it seem colder than it really is. They sit in the warm kitchen. Anna is helping Elsie with dinner, but she leaves the room at a glance from Charles, taking Samuel with her.

Matthew watches her go. He doesn't think the hired girl would tell what she hears, but he is glad she is not in the room.

-Tell us what happened, Elsie says quietly. She wonders what could have come between mother and son. They have always been close, or appeared to be.

 _We never know what goes on behind closed doors._

-Well…

Matthew taps his fingers on the table. His face flushes. –Do you know Dr. Clarkson proposed to Mother? Last summer?

Charles and Elsie exchange glances. –Yes, they say at the same time.

Sighing, Matthew leans forward. –She told me after it happened. And that she'd said no. She said they would still be friends, but I don't think they are. Not now. He wrote to her a few times, and I _think_ she wrote to him, but she hasn't received a letter from him since October.

Elsie takes a deep breath, her mind racing. Richard's letters to them have been as consistent as ever. He hardly ever talks about himself. Mostly he asks after the children, and everyone's health. He was delighted to hear about the success of the harvest. He passes on news about the family further south, and the chaotic vigilante violence in San Francisco. Charles worries when he writes he hasn't seen John in weeks.

Richard has written nothing about Isobel to Elsie or Charles. He received their letter inviting him to visit during Christmas, but declined, saying it was impossible to get away from his patients.

Elsie thought that was likely. Until her mother wrote and said Richard didn't visit them in Mission San Jose, either.

 _Why would he_ not _visit them, if not us? To see Patrick, at least?_

-What does this have to do with you? Charles asks Matthew, folding his large hands. –That is between them, not you.

Matthew drops his eyes. –That's what Mother said. In November, when I asked her. He swallows. –So I wrote him myself. Last month.

-You should not have done that, Elsie chides him. As much as she thinks her brother and Isobel would make a lovely couple, she does not think it right for her or anyone else to interfere.

-I didn't ask him about her! Matthew huffs, indignant. –I just wrote to him to tell him we were well! I wrote him about school and some other things, and asked him if he thought somebody would ever build a railroad across the country.

Charles hides a grin. Matthew is very keen on railroads. Obsessed is the better word.

-And your mother didn't like you writing to him? Elsie persists, and the boy squirms. Charles raises his eyebrows.

-She didn't _know_ you wrote to him.

Matthew shakes his head slowly. –Not until today. He-he wrote back to me. I got the letter last week, when Mother was out. But she found it today. She was _furious_ when I got home from school.

-You should have told her. She was probably upset that you hadn't said anything, Elsie says. The picture is forming in her mind.

-That was part of it, Matthew scowls, balling his hands into fists. The words come pouring out of him like a torrent. –She waved it at me, and asked _why_ I'd written to him, and I said because he's a friend, and he told me I could write to him whenever I pleased. Then she asked what I could have to tell him that I couldn't tell her, and I…I told her it was none of her business. And then she said she was my mother (as if I didn't know _that_ already!), and _of course_ it was her business. Then I got mad and said yes, you're my mother, but you're a woman, and there's things you don't understand, and never will. She got quiet then. I could see she was really angry. She said maybe there are things she doesn't understand now, but that she's willing to try. _Then_ she said if I wanted to talk to a man, there are plenty of them here. She said you, he turns to Charles. –and Mr. Palmer, the schoolmaster. I said I didn't _want_ to talk to Mr. Palmer, I wanted to talk to Dr. Clarkson. I said he's my friend, and I can ask him things. Her face got all red and she asked why I thought he was my friend, and I said because he told me so, and _she_ said-she said maybe he was my friend once, but he has his own life now, and I shouldn't bother him. I yelled that he _is_ my friend, that he wrote to _me_! Then she said he was just being polite. I said he was _not_ just being polite, he misses visiting here, and if she had stayed friends with him like she said she would, he would come back! Then I said it was her fault and ran out of the house. I slammed the door. She _hates_ it when I do that.

Matthew sighs, slumps down in his chair, and rests his face on the table.

-I shouldn't have yelled at her. Or run away, he mumbles, his voice muffled. –But he hasn't been back here since last summer. Why would he stay away for so long? He hasn't come to visit here, has he?

-No, Elsie says, her mind full. –Not since last summer when Maggie was born.

It is obvious to her that Matthew has formed a bond with Richard that is stronger than anyone knew. She has not seen them much together, but they both share similar traits. A love of books, of learning, of reason and science, of looking to the future.

Isobel is the same in many ways.

But Richard has two qualities that gain Matthew's attention, neither of which his mother has, Elsie muses. One is that her brother holds a degree from a university. She recalls seeing Matthew sitting outside the previous spring reading _An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations_ , by Adam Smith. The book is one Richard has read numerous times.

It is a mark of good faith and trust in the boy's intellect, she thinks, that Richard would let him borrow the famous work. As for Mr. Palmer, Isobel has told her that Matthew chafes under the schoolmaster's thumb. The boy is known at school for asking incessant questions – some of which, according to Mr. Palmer, are impertinent and not worth answering.

Probably, she thinks with a private smile, because the man does not know the answers.

The other quality Richard possesses is more basic. And Elsie has little doubt that is what sparked Isobel's anger, and likely guilt as well.

Richard is a man. And as much as Matthew loves his mother, he is no longer a little boy. He wants a mentor. Someone he can speak with, not perhaps like a mother or a father (though Elsie wonders about the latter), but someone nonetheless he trusts.

Charles sits back with his hands on his knees. It is a lot to think about, and the look on Elsie's face tells him she has a firm handle on what is going on. He has an inkling himself.

He is inclined to believe Matthew. Some boys would exaggerate, or lie outright. But not Isobel's son. He is as honest as George Washington, as the saying goes.

 _Comparing him to a revolutionary is not helpful._

Though the midwife has said that Matthew resembles his late father, Charles thinks there's more of Isobel in him than she realizes. Stubborn, sometimes to the point of being obstinate. An inquiring mind.

And sometimes refusing to see what's in front of him – though Charles is fairly certain the boy's age has more to do with it.

He remembers what it was to be young, and eager to spread his wings, away from his parents.

 _I had my father to guide me. He does not._

Though he and Matthew get along, he knows he cannot be what the boy needs. Not now. He has Elsie, their family, and the vineyard to look after.

Fleetingly, he wonders what their life will look like in ten years' time. When Samuel is nearer Matthew's age. Will they clash? The thought makes him uncomfortable, and he sets it aside.

He does not want to guess what Isobel thinks, though he cannot help wondering. He has never spoken of her and whatever is going on with Richard.

 _That is not my place…if Elsie thinks the same, then I'll know I am right._

She knows her brother far better than he does. And she's become quite close to Isobel.

He gets back to the task of the moment. –You were very rude to your mother. And I think you know that. Matthew lifts his head from the table, nodding slowly. –Perhaps, he says, stealing a glance at his wife who's deep in thought, -what you and she need is a bit of time apart. I think you should stay here tonight. In the morning, I'll drive you into town.

Elsie meets his eyes.

 _Yes. Give them time._

-I will ride into town and tell her so, he gets up from the table. –While I get ready, you'd better write her a note, at least, and apologize.

-An excellent idea, Elsie rises as well, her hand on Matthew's. –Sometimes we need a bit of breathing space. Even from those we love.

-I was wrong about you, the boy says as Charles leaves the room. –I thought you'd side with Mother, and send me home. Box my ears for yelling at her.

-I do take your mother's side, Elsie tells him. She hears Maggie squalling and heads for the door. –But that does not mean you are wrong. And as for boxing your ears, her eyes twinkle, -Mr. Carson is right. You know you were wrong, and that is enough punishment in itself.

After dinner, and the little ones put to bed, Matthew sits in the parlor with the Carsons. He takes comfort in the note his mother sent back with Charles, and that she is not _entirely_ furious with him anymore.

Long after he sleeps, on a pallet of blankets in Samuel's room, Charles and Elsie sit talking downstairs.

They quickly become aware that they are in agreement. Not just about Matthew, but about Isobel and Richard.

-She is lonely, Elsie says, her hand against her cheek. –And she misses him. She does not want to admit it, though.

-Do you think she regrets refusing him? Charles asks.

Elsie purses her lips. –Maybe. It was not the right time then, for her at least. I can't be sure. But I _am_ sure she knows now, much more than she did last autumn, how much she misses him.

To most people's eyes, Isobel has not changed. But Elsie has seen in recent weeks a melancholy air in her friend, one that saddens her.

She has tried, gently, to ask about Richard. But Isobel always turns the conversation to something else.

-She is a stubborn woman, she mutters.

-Perhaps if he would write to her again, something would change, Charles says.

-We can only hope. Elsie squeezes his hand.

* * *

Sitting by the fire, Isobel squints at the trousers on her lap, at the finished stitching that lengthens them.

 _He keeps growing. In body and mind._

She sneaks a glance at Matthew, who is sprawled on the floor in front of the fire, reading.

 _Thank God he is not still angry with me. I was such a fool._

She is eternally grateful to the Carsons for keeping him the previous night, and for bringing him back to Sonoma this morning. After school, he had come home and they reconciled. There is still some tension in the air, but not the sharp rancor of the previous evening.

It had shocked her, his temper. She had cried after he stormed out, then half the night after Mr. Carson had ridden to tell her where he was. In some ways, she was glad Matthew stayed somewhere else, somewhere safe. To have time away from her. On the other hand, it had meant she was alone with her thoughts.

She is not one to dwell much on the past. But recently, she has found herself looking back far more than she can ever remember doing previously. Thinking about Reginald and their courtship. Their marriage, and helping him care for people. Losing children…and finally Matthew being born. Reginald slipping away from her as she held his hands. The darkness that seemed to consume her after he died.

Meeting Elsie and Mr. Carson. Matthew, bringing her joy.

Dr. Clarkson.

Richard.

The very thought of him was like poking at an open sore.

For the first time in months, though, she has not turned away from it. Instead, she faces it.

And it is Matthew's doing that has forced her hand. In the moment, she was furious. Now she sees it for the hidden blessing that it is.

The letter that had started everything sits on the little table next to her. She glances at it, then at Matthew. He is still far away in _Nicholas Nickleby_.

She picks up the letter and reads it again, though by now she knows it by heart.

 _Dear Matthew,_

 _What a pleasant surprise to receive your letter! I was delighted when Mrs. Gruzinsky gave it to me. Thank God you and your mother are well. No doubt you both are quite busy, she with her work and you with your schooling._

 _Mr. Palmer sounds rather narrow-minded. I urge you not to provoke him. Not only will you get into trouble again, but he will be much less likely in the future to want to help you. Speaking from experience, if a man is asked questions of which he does not know the answer, and the questioner is younger than he is, it is a rare man who will admit his ignorance. Much less when there is an audience._

 _He_ _was_ _wrong to tell you not to ask questions. That is your most important task as a student. How else can you learn?_

 _This is my advice to you. When a question comes to you, make a note of it, then ask him later when you have a chance to speak to him alone. You do not ask your schoolmaster questions to make him look foolish, I know. But_ _he_ _does not know you as well as I do, and it may be he sees your questions as a challenge to his authority. If you continue questioning him, and he remains hostile, then that is a matter for another day._

 _You asked what I thought about the prospect of a railroad across the continent. Yes, I believe it will be built one day. I think it will certainly come in your lifetime, if not in mine. Imagination and will together can do great things._

 _As for the other matter you wrote me about, rest assured. You can rely on my confidence. I admit my advice here will be less secure than the advice in regards to your situation with Mr. Palmer, but I will try._

 _You are young. I do not say this to put you off. Only to remind you that you have, God willing, a great many years in front of you, and you do not know who else may cross your path in that time. It may be that your heart is set now. It may be that you will not waver in your regard. All I can tell you is to continue to be kind and considerate, and your faithfulness may be rewarded. If it is not, do not despair. Remember –_

' _I hold it true, whate'er befall;_

 _I feel it when I sorrow most;_

' _Tis better to have loved and lost_

 _Than never to have loved at all.'_

 _You are generous and compassionate. These things are a blessing, and not a curse._

 _If it is in my power to help you, I will. Write to me whenever you wish. Until then, I remain,_

 _Yours, &c._

 _R. Clarkson_

-Mother?

Isobel jumps a little in her chair. She folds the page over. Matthew sees her holding his letter, but he doesn't mention it. –I'm going to bed.

She smiles. –Good night, then. Sleep well. Don't forget to say your prayers.

-I won't. He smiles in return, the scars of their row still fading. She feels better when he leans over and kisses her cheek.

She sits staring into the fire after he leaves the room. Thinking. Wondering. What _if…_

 _If you never try, you will never know._

She gets up, setting the letter and trousers aside, and hurries after Matthew.

* * *

 _ **February 1855, San Francisco**_

The gloomy evening outside seems to seep into every corner of the boardinghouse. It would have been more prudent to sit in the parlor downstairs, but Richard prefers to be alone.

And after reading the letter once, he is infinitely glad he is alone.

The flickering light of the oil lamp casts shadows around him, but the words on the page in front of him drive away all the lingering doubts and despair that have followed him for months.

He last wrote to Mrs. Crawley- _Isobel_ , in October. He would have continued to write, but her silence kept him from putting pen to ink. What little she did write until her last letter was so devoid of anything meaningful that he felt there was no point in keeping up the correspondence.

Her letters were like ones from a stranger.

With his absence, had she realized she actually cared nothing for him?

The autumn and the winter have been dark, both in the few days of sunshine and in his heart.

Matthew's letter was a small spark of happiness.

But now, now, he reads and re-reads the letter before him. The pages shake in his trembling hands.

 _Dear Dr. Clarkson,_

 _First of all, please accept my apology for not responding to your last letter. It came to me at a time when my own feelings were rather confused. I could not find the words to say, or the courage to say them if they did come to mind._

 _Matthew and I are well. We have had our difficult moments, especially recently. I must confess that your letter to him confounded me. He had not told me he had written to you, and when I learned he had done so, I was very angry._

 _I lost my temper with him._

 _To my utter surprise, he lost his temper as well. He rarely does, as you know. At the time it only incensed me further. But the things he said, upon further reflection, caused my eyes to be opened. To not only what my son has been telling me without words for weeks, but to what my heart was saying. And to what I was so reluctant to admit to myself._

 _When Reginald died, I thought most of me died with him. I was unable to see much of what was in front of me. Having Matthew to look after saved my sanity._

 _Then I met Elsie, and her Mr. Carson._

 _And you._

 _You changed me, though I was unaware of it for a long time. You see, after I had emerged from my deepest grief, I found I enjoyed the dignity and independence of being mistress of my own household. Though Reginald never saw me as the 'weaker vessel', I have always been aware of how our society views women. As near-children, unable to fend for ourselves without the help of men._

 _You are one of the few who does not see us that way._

 _I always thought myself capable of being responsible for my own family. After my husband's death, I_ knew _my own ability. And I was reluctant to give up that responsibility._

 _The question you asked last summer came at a time when Matthew and I had settled into our new life. Part of me did not want to upset the balance we had found. I knew my son respected you very much, and you felt the same towards him, but beyond that I was unsure if my accepting your proposal would strengthen his bond with you, or weaken it._

 _His emotion when we argued, as well as the warm tone of your letter to him, convinced me that there was a stronger regard between the two of you than I had thought. This view forced me to examine my own feelings._

 _Your patience and steadiness are something to be treasured. You never set yourself first, but always look to others' welfare before your own. Even at the cost of your own desires._

 _It was that which tormented me, knowing that you set aside your hopes, giving me time to reconcile mine. Few men would have been so generous._

 _To be honest, I have been miserable for some time. I know that now. You were kind to send letters, and I treasured them, but they were a reminder of what you had offered – and what I had declined._

 _What could my letters bring you other than pain? You deserved to live your life, with the chance to look to the future, not the past. So I set my pen aside._

 _It was easier to set my mind to my daily tasks. Looking after Matthew, running our house, tending to women here. Visiting friends, and helping with the Carsons' harvest._

 _It was not enough._

 _You were free with your feelings in your letters last autumn, telling me you had not wavered in your resolve. This gave me further guilt for a time. That I could not return the affection that you deserved._

 _But time has passed, enough to be sure of my own heart. I pray it is not too late._

 _You told me the last time we were together that I am a woman who knows her own mind._

 _Know this: I no longer wish to be a widow._

 _If you believe that this means, however, that I will be satisfied with any man who holds me in esteem, you would be very, very wrong. There is only one man to whom I could give my heart._

 _You have it, if you still desire it, for as long as there is breath in me. From this, I will never waver._

 _I hope you will forgive me for my stubbornness. I had no wish to cause you sadness, but I hope my answer will bring you joy._

 _Thank you for your kindness to Matthew. It means everything to me. His letter, to be sent in reply to your last, will not long follow mine. He knows I am writing to you this evening. He prayed for you earlier most affectionately, and is already impatient to see you._

 _As am I. I am also impatient to send this letter, and for you to receive it._

 _Forgive the many smears and inkblots above. My hand is not as steady as you would usually find it. I will leave you to guess the reason._

 _I pray this letter finds you well. I look forward to receiving your reply soon._

 _God bless you._

 _Ever your friend,_

 _Mrs. Isobel Crawley_

Richard rubs his thumb over her name.

 _Isobel._

It feels as though a colossal weight has lifted from his shoulders. He leans back in his chair, tears pricking his eyes. He reads her letter again, then twice more.

Lifting the paper to his lips, he kisses it.

If Elsie were in the room, he knows she would laugh at the smile on his face. Or perhaps she would weep for joy. He would like to know what she thinks, but before he informs her of its contents, he has a much more urgent letter to write.

He writes fast, so much so he leaves several inkblots. Laughing, he shakes his head. They do not matter. _Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow_ rattle around his newly-refreshed brain. Tomorrow, he will send the letter, and look forward to the years ahead, with no shadows to mar them.

* * *

The saloon is noisy. Louder than he would like. But he cannot stay in his room in the quiet boardinghouse. Not tonight, not when he knows the woman he loves, loves him in return.

He has been careful to wear older clothes. His trousers are rather frayed. This rowdy place on Pacific Street is not as dangerous as some of the others. But he has lived in San Francisco long enough to know where there's a good chance a man can have a simple drink without too much fear of getting his head kicked in, or robbed. Or both.

 _Thank God Elsie carried the revolver when she lived here. And thank God she was there to save Charles._

-Clarkson? Dr. Clarkson?

He turns, having paid for his drink. A big, burly man with a round face smiles at him. –I thought it was you. I haven't seen you for a long time. Where have you been?

-Here in the same place, Reece. Fighting human nature and cholera. Though, he can't help adding, -That will change in the near future. Richard shakes his hand. Henry Reece is a rare specimen. An honest judge, surrounded by mostly dishonorable scoundrels.

-Oh? Have you finally had enough of this cesspool?

-No, Richard grins. –This city will always be dear to me. Despite its many flaws, I know I'm doing good work here. But I will marry soon, and my intended - his smile nearly cracks his face –lives north of here, in Sonoma. We will settle there.

-I'll be sorry to see you go, his friend slaps him on the back. –Congratulations! She must be some kind of woman to pull you away from here.

-I am the fortunate one, Richard returns Henry's toast. He tells his friend about Isobel. They sit talking of San Francisco, of the criminals that overrun it and the greed that motivates the politicians. As they smoke cigars, Richard tells him about Charles and Elsie's vineyard. The judge is intrigued, and wants to know more.

-I'll write to your brother-in-law, he says. Good wine is a rare gift. I hear of any number of people beginning to plant vineyards up that way, but not all of them know what they're doing.

He has to raise his voice. The noise in the crowded room grows ever louder. Cigar smoke hangs in the air, while someone bangs on the piano in the corner.

A very boisterous crowd of men and a handful of women roar with laughter across the room. Several dance, while the rest drink. A game of poker is in place at one table.

-Fools, Henry mutters. –In a place where you're just as likely to lose your money on your way home, _they_ sit losing money here! In my younger days, I'd be with them, but I grew some sense.

He rubs his bald patch.

Richard laughs and leans his head back puffing smoke at the ceiling. –Fortunately for you.

A woman wearing a dress much too low-cut leans against the upright piano, talking to the man playing. Her loud laugh cuts through the groans from several of the men, while a man with his back to Richard shows the winning hand, and collects their money.

-The lure of easy riches is hard to resist, Henry stubs out his cigar. –Though I was never tempted to pan for gold. That seemed entirely too _much_ work for me, with little chance of a reward.

-When I was at Transylvania University, several fellow students taught me to play poker. I thought they were being friendly…but after I realized they had taught me only because they knew they could _beat_ me, I quit playing. But not before I lost more money than I cared to admit, Richard says. –My father's disappointment in me was severe.

The woman by the piano crosses the floor and sits in the lap of the poker game winner. She kisses him on the mouth in full view of the entire room. From where Richard is sitting, he can see entirely too much of her décolletage. He turns his head, feeling more embarrassment for her than any discomfort he feels at her wanton appearance.

She is most certainly not his type. Nothing like Isobel. Elsie would throw someone like her out on her ear.

-Brazen, snorts Henry, –A woman like that has no shame.

Richard exhales another cloud of smoke. The man holding the bold woman on his lap turns his head slightly to say something to one of the other men, and the doctor immediately coughs.

 _John Bates!?_

-I'll buy you another drink, Henry says, thumping him on the back. Richard shakes his head and stands up.

-No, thank you. Excuse me. He stubs out his cigar and crosses the room.

-Hello, Mr. Bates. I haven't seen you in a while.

John turns so quickly, the woman has to hold onto him to keep from falling onto the floor.

-Whoa, Batesy, she laughs. She has a slight Irish lilt. –I thought I was riding a tame horse, but it seems you're a wild one!

Richard ignores her innuendo. John's eyes are wide, in complete shock.

-Good evening, Doctor Clarkson, he finally says. –I…did not expect to see you…here.

-I do get out from time to time, Richard takes his offered hand. –I _am_ glad to see you. The last time I called, your landlady said you were out, and did not know when you would be back.

Something, he is not sure what, whispers to him not to mention Charles and Elsie, or Isobel. He thinks Mr. Bates looks well, but there is a glint in his eye the doctor recognizes well.

 _He looks lost._

-Are you a friend of John's? The woman asks, her black curls brushing the sides of her face. Richard thinks she is pretty in a way, but her features are rather hard. As if she has seen things she should not have.

-We met through other friends near Sonoma, he tells her, noticing her casual use of his friend's name, as well as the intimate way she curls her fingers into John's hair. –But for my part, yes, I consider Mr. Bates a friend. Where did you meet him, Miss? He cannot resist asking.

She smiles broadly, a glint in her pale blue eyes. –It's _Missus_ , not miss, Dr. Clarkson. Mrs. John Bates, though my _good_ friends call me Vera. We met here in San Francisco, at a dance hall.

-She's an entertainer, and a good one, John says, giving her a squeeze. Vera's smile says everything to Richard.

 _Yes, I'm sure she IS good._

It is all he can do to keep his composure.

 _Married! To Mr. Bates! And him yoked to such a woman – what will Charles think!?_

John's face reddens slightly. He gestures to Vera to stand up, before standing next to her, his arm around her waist. –I know it comes as a surprise to you, Doctor. We meant to surprise our friends.

-You certainly have done that, Richard says dryly. Despite his own feelings, he thinks of his manners and removes his hat. –My congratulations to you both. May you have many years of happiness.

John murmurs his thanks while Vera preens. She kisses her husband on the cheek, then goes to talk to the piano player again.

-I know what it looks like, John says. –But she's got a good heart. Really. We met and fell in love the first time we saw each other and-well, that's how it happens sometimes. You were there when Charles and Elsie met.

Richard slightly raises one eyebrow, twirling his hat in his hands.

They _were nothing like this._

-Have you written to Charles? He asks. If John has, it must have been recently. Otherwise he would have received a letter from Charles about the news-or more likely Elsie, by now.

-I sent a letter to him yesterday, John says. –Telling him I'll be going north soon, and asking to visit. I didn't tell him about Vera…like I said, I want to surprise him. And Elsie.

He lowers his voice, though the noise in the room has hardly lessened. –Please…will you promise not to tell them?

Richard holds his gaze. His instinct wars with his reason.

-You have my word, he says finally. –It is not my news to tell.

 _As much as I think they deserve a warning._

John thanks him, and they shake hands again. Richard goes to leave with Henry. At the door, he looks back once more. John is seated at the table, dealing cards. Richard feels someone's eyes on him.

Vera.

She smiles as if she knows precisely what he is thinking.

 _You don't fool me._

 _We are married, and there is nothing_ _you_ _can do._

He stares back at her until she averts her gaze. He smiles grimly.

 _Maybe I can change nothing, but I know who, and what, you are._

* * *

 _ **Two weeks later, near Sonoma**_

-Where is he? Matthew asks, racing onto the porch. –Mr. Mason told me he arrived this morning, and that he and Mother came here!

Anna laughs, amused at the boy's eagerness. She waves at Mr. Mason and William as they turn around, heading for home. –Dr. Clarkson and your mother are walking in the vineyard, she says, laying aside her sewing. Mr. and Mrs. Carson are with them. They all should be back soon. You'll just have to wait, she says when he starts down the porch steps. He reluctantly climbs them again.

A squeal erupts from the far side of the porch. –BA!

Samuel launches himself toward Matthew. The older boy catches him before he falls, and swings him in the air before setting him down on his feet again. –Hello, Sam, he grins, ruffling his hair. –How are you? Where is your sister?

-With her mum and dad, Anna says. –Go on, Samuel, show Matthew what you've been up to.

The tiny boy goes and picks up the wooden spoon several feet away. He tries to pick up the bucket next to it, but it is too heavy. Determined, he drags it across the porch while Anna and Matthew laugh at his expression. He then proceeds to hit the bucket with the spoon.

Matthew crouches down to Sam's height. –Ah, you're practicing for this summer, when the band will play on the Fourth of July! Well done!

They take turns banging on the overturned bucket.

* * *

On the far side of the vineyard, Elsie hums, her arm through Charles's. She cannot see Richard or Isobel anymore.

But keeping them in sight would not be sensible right now.

Charles seems content to walk at a leisurely pace. He holds Maggie in his left arm, her soft auburn hair tickling his cheek. He turns to kiss her, and she giggles. The sound softens his heart and he laughs, bouncing her a little.

"Stop looking so smug," he glances at Elsie, still laughing. "I am sure both of them are well aware how pleased you are!"

"And you're not?" Elsie laughs at him. She feels giddy, happiness breaking out all over. "You nearly tore Richard's letter out of my hands when I told you what happened!" She clears her throat, fighting with the smile that won't leave her face. Her husband and daughter laughing together do not help in the slightest to dampen her joy. "Do I look suitable _now_?"

She arranges her expression into one that would be appropriate listening to a dour sermon. He raises an eyebrow, and they stare at each other until both lose their composure at the same time.

"Hopeless," Charles gasps. "Oh, love, we must _try_ to act presentable. If nothing else, when Matthew gets here-"

"He may already be here," Elsie cuts in. "Actually, I'm sure of it. Didn't you see Bill Mason and William wave from the road?"

"No," Charles answers. "How could you see them, and _I_ missed them?"

Snorting with laughter, Elsie squeezes his arm. " _You_ were rather enamored with another lady just then," she says, giving Maggie a bright smile. Charles untangles his other arm from Elsie to move the baby closer. They come to a halt, and Elsie lifts herself onto her toes to kiss Maggie. "You spoil her," she sighs, as Charles tickles their daughter's chin.

"Maybe I do. But how can I not, today of all days?" He says, looking up at the white clouds passing overhead. "There is nothing but good news. Your brother is engaged to a good woman, a dear friend of ours. And if that were not enough, I can't stop thinking about John…he said he would be here soon, likely this week!"

"If I thought you kept the days you spoil our girl to days like today, she would hardly be spoiled at all," Elsie takes Maggie from his arms and they resume their walk. "But no, Charlie, it's every day. And Samuel, too. I won't blame you for it, not today." She smiles as he slides an arm around her waist. "Even though I should."

They walk a little further, the hill sloping down before them. In the field beyond sits a barley tree. Two familiar figures stand beneath it, so close together it is impossible to tell them apart.

Charles clears his throat. "We should stop them. Say something."

"Yes, we should."

They stop.

Then without a word, they turn to walk back up the hill.

"Do you think Richard knows something about John?" Charles asks, trying not to think about how improper it is to leave an unmarried couple unchaperoned. _Reverend Davidson would never approve!_

"No," Elsie replies, balancing Maggie on her hip. She wraps the blanket a bit more securely around the baby. "He said he had seen him, and he looked well. Why, do you think so?"

"Maybe. Something in his expression," Charles mused. "He left very quickly, before I had a chance to question him further."

Rolling her eyes, Elsie grins at him. "He was distracted, and he wanted to see Isobel. That hardly means he's hiding something."

In truth, she thinks the same as her husband. But John will be visiting soon, so they will find out when he arrives.

"I think he's in love," Charles says abruptly as the house comes into view. "John. I think he's found a woman." Elsie, walking a little ahead, turns to face him.

"Or she has found him." She looks him up and down as he steps closer, until she can feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, and hers. He brushes a flyaway strand of hair away from her face, leaving his fingers on her cheek. "Charlie…" she blushes, looking down. "Not here. Anna and the boys can see us."

"They won't mind," he murmurs. He kisses her slowly, their lips parting. He slides his tongue into her mouth and she moans-

A loud squawk breaks them apart. Elsie shakes her head and touches Maggie's nose. "There, there," she coos. "I see _you_ mind, lass."

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Who did we say spoils her again?"

* * *

Matthew sits reading on the porch when Richard and Isobel come into view. He drops his book and runs toward them, slowing down when he is only a few steps away.

-Hello Mother, he says. He suddenly feels shy. He's never seen her hold hands with a man, other than Father. And it strikes him how pretty she looks. Her dark eyes bright, her wearing the smile he knows well. _She is SO happy!_ –G-good afternoon, Dr. Clarkson, he stutters. -We didn't expect to see you this soon.

-I didn't want to waste time. Richard smiles and extends his hand. Matthew takes it, smiling tentatively at him. –There were people I was keen to see as soon as possible. Your mother, for one. He shares a smile with her. –And after her, you. Your letter was very kind. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you accept me. Accept us.

-Of course I do! Matthew gives Isobel a kiss and hug.

-My dear boy, she whispers in his ear, -Thank you.

 _Thank you for everything._

The three of them go into the house, where their family waits.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hi. It's been a while (understatement, I know).**

 **My husband should be the one you thank for this update. He is currently playing in a production of** _ **Man of La Mancha**_ **, which really has nothing to do with this Chelsie AU, but I referenced** _ **Don Quixote**_ **way back in like chapter three. So this story barged its way to the front of the line.**

 **Just a refresher – the last chapter ended with Richard and Isobel's engagement (oops, spoiler alert!) and Charles and Elsie getting news that John Bates is coming for a visit. Richard knows he's married, and to whom, but the Carsons do not know.**

 **A reminder that this fic is rated M. IYKWIMAITYD. This is AU, with a young Chelsie. Elsie's action may seem waaaaay out of character here, but...context.**

 **As always, your reviews and comments are most appreciated. To the person who sent me a little review in the last 24 hours, you have spectacular timing.**

 **A few historical notes, in order:**

 ***"I am a stranger here, but this is where I belong." Thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for helping me with Spanish, since I don't know any except for sketchy translations on the Internet.**

 ***Skirmishes between settlers and the native Yurok and Karok tribes occurred in northern California in early 1855.**

 ***The lines Isobel recites are from "Song of Myself", a famous poem by Walt Whitman. His great work,** _ **Leaves of Grass**_ **, was first published in Brooklyn in July 1855.**

 ***The violence in Kansas between pro and anti-slavery men began in 1854 and lasted for years. In late November 1855, a man was killed, which led to reprisals on both sides. It escalated into a siege of Lawrence, Kansas by over a thousand pro-slavery men. The defenders were abolitionists, including John Brown. Fortunately a treaty was made before anyone attacked.**

* * *

 _ **March 1855, near Sonoma**_

Charles and Elsie both agree that between them, he is easier to fluster. She is the steady one, not often surprised.

But when John Bates arrives at their house with his wife, both Carsons are shocked.

Married.

 _Married._

 _He's_ _ **married**_ _._

As much as Charles keeps repeating the words in his head, he cannot believe them. And yet as he watches his old friend help his wife, his _wife_ , from their fine carriage and introduce her, he has to believe it.

Vera has black hair, pale skin, and a fine figure. She smiles prettily at Charles and Elsie, but her eyes are cold.

John clears his throat, the silence thick around them. –I see we succeeded in surprising you.

Rousing himself, Charles steps forward and shakes his hand. –You did. But it's wonderful to see you. Both of you. Congratulations. He forces himself to smile at the new Mrs. Bates, hoping neither she nor his friend, see his unease.

 _Don't think about it now. Manners._

Samuel murmurs, pulling at Elsie's skirt. She is relieved to have to pick him up; to give him some attention, to avert her gaze from Charles talking to John and his…wife.

 _She does not look like the sort of woman to marry anyone._

 _A common tart if I ever saw one! What was he thinking!?_

 _You know very well what was on his mind when he met her…_

 _Steady on, girl, don't judge a book by its cover._

It is hard not to. Vera's new boots, and her dress and feathered hat, look misplaced next to Charles and Elsie's plain clothes. They show a regard for finery that seems misplaced compared to John's plainer tastes.

It is not simply dismay Elsie feels, or what she sees in Charles's expression. It is disappointment. He and John Bates share a bond that began years ago, when they traveled the dangerous road together to California. Though the Carsons have not seen John since he moved to San Francisco, Elsie knows Charles has worried about his friend more than he has said. And she has wondered how Mr. Bates had fared in the city alone.

And now John has come to visit with a wife who seems totally unlike the sort of woman they would have thought he would marry.

 _Maybe we do not know him as well as we thought we did._

Sighing, she sets Samuel on her hip. –Congratulations, Mr. Bates, she says. Somehow her voice and expression sound normal. –And to you, Mrs. Bates. I hope the journey here was pleasant.

-It was, Vera replies, looking from Charles to her. –You're both very kind. I can see why my Batesy spoke of you so often.

The sweet tone of her voice rivals molasses. Elsie's suppressed intuition flares anew, but she manages not to show it.

-Won't you come inside? She asks. –You must be tired after your travels.

-Oh, thank you. Elsie sees Vera scanning the porch, the two-storied house, the vineyard with open greed.

 _She wants all of this for herself. More._

 _But does she know the work involved in caring for all of it?_

-You go on, John kisses Vera on her cheek. –Mr. Carson and I will tend the horses.

Charles and Elsie both see his pride in his wife, and they exchange a troubled glance. The men lead the horses and carriage to the barn.

-How wonderful that you have your own land! It's rather pretty, for being in the country, I mean, Vera says, lifting her skirt from the dirt. – _I_ would die of boredom here, I'm sure. Johnny promised me that as soon as he can, he'll buy me a house in San Francisco.

Elsie bites her lip as Vera prattles on about their life in the city.

 _ **Johnny?**_

It is not until she is at the foot of the porch steps when she remembers Anna had followed them outside. Their hired girl stands next to the front door holding Maggie.

-Mrs. Bates, this is Anna Smith, Elsie says, letting Vera go in front of her. –Anna, this is John's wife. Mrs. Bates, this is our daughter Margaret. We call her Maggie.

She gestures to the baby, who drools, staring.

-Two little ones. Vera smiles without it reaching her eyes. –Children are a lot of work. You must be very glad to have a servant.

-Anna is like a member of our family. She lives with us and is very dear to Mr. Carson and me. And to our children, Elsie says with a hint of frost. She does not like the tone in the woman's voice.

Or the way she looks right through the girl, like she isn't even there.

Yes, Anna is paid wages, but neither Elsie nor Charles think of the girl as a mere servant.

-How do you do, Mrs. Bates? Anna asks politely. Her blue eyes take in the woman before her. She has none of the surprise the Carsons displayed; only a glimmer of disapproval. Of course, Anna cannot be as shocked as they were, Elsie thinks. She has never met John Bates, let alone guessed at what sort of woman he would marry.

-Well enough. I am glad to be out of the carriage for a while. The road was nothing but dust and heat! Vera laughs as they go inside. The sound grates on Elsie's ears.

Charles and John unhitch the carriage and brush down the horses, talking of the previous year's harvest.

-I'm sure you are much more grateful for its success than I am, John grins as they walk out of the barn. –You and Elsie have worked so hard. You should be proud.

-Thank you. Charles turns to walk towards the house, but his friend stops him.

-Do you mind if we walk around the vineyard? I do want to join them, but I think it would be nice to let our wives get to know each other without us being there. John looks apologetic. –Vera is a very engaging woman; she doesn't need my help making friends.

The way he said it almost makes Charles cringe. It is clear to him that Mrs. Bates holds more sway in the marriage. That does not bode well. He knows John, knows his temper.

He guesses that his wife has one, too.

His friend is still in the throes of first love. But what will happen when it cools?

There is more to marriage than passion – though the spark, Charles knows, is important too. It is not the _only_ thing, however.

They walk through the long rows and to the edge of the vineyard, looking at the barley field beyond.

-I missed it here, John breaks the silence once. –More than I realized. I love San Francisco too, but this place has a beauty all its own. Vera wants to stay in the city…I don't mind it, but I think she'll change her mind once we have children. I want a home like you and Elsie have one day.

His eyes are wistful.

Elsie leads Vera through the house. She sets Sam down, letting him toddle along with them. Anna follows with Maggie.

-A stove! How wonderful! Vera laughs in the kitchen. –I thought farmers' wives had to cook over an open hearth!

Sometimes Elsie does when she cannot get the stove to cooperate. But she is not about to tell Vera this. –It is useful. Mr. Carson is a vintner, not a farmer, she says lightly as her guest sits down. –We have a large garden, and the barley field, but the vineyard is our pride.

She kisses Sam and lifts him onto a chair. He stands on it, playing with a chink of wood at the end of the table. He shoves it towards Vera, wanting to play, but she ignores him. Anna moves it back so he doesn't have to reach for it.

-Johnny said you had a good harvest, Vera takes the offered teacup from Elsie without comment. –I should like to try some of the wine.

-I'm sure Mr. Carson will be delighted to share it with both of you.

Elsie is happy she can say something that does not feel like an outright lie. She goes back to making the meal that had been interrupted when their guests arrived. While she is _very_ thankful her chicken pie is not burned, she wonders if Vera will like it. Mr. Bates always ate everything she made without complaint.

She wants to at least get along with John's wife, for his sake. There is something about the woman that nags her. It is not just Vera's appearance, or her endless talking about herself (Elsie nods, and drops a word or two when necessary). It is something she cannot trace. She smiles when Vera tells Samuel how big he is.

She does not see the stony look on Mrs. Bates' face.

Maggie frets in Anna's arms, and Elsie hurries to set out the bread and butter.

-She's hungry. She takes her daughter from Anna. –I'll only be a little while, she tells Vera. –We set out a table on the west side of the house. We thought we could eat there. I hope you don't mind.

-No, Vera says.

Anna gets up. –I'll put another chair out, Mrs. Carson.

-Thank you, Anna. Elsie goes to the bedroom. She sighs, leaning back against the rocking chair, as Maggie nurses.

They had known John would visit. Charlie had suspected his friend was in love. But she is sure neither one thought that he would be married. She feels a pang of hurt for her husband.

 _Surely Mr. Bates could have written and told him. They are old friends._

Maggie snuffles at her breast. Elsie runs a gentle finger through her baby girl's auburn curls. –Aye, you only need your belly full to be content, she murmurs, smiling. –That, and Da to make you laugh.

No sound of voices comes from the kitchen, but she hears the clatter of plates. Elsie hums. Maybe Vera went outside to find her husband.

Elsie is buttoning her dress when Samuel screams. The sound is like a knife in her heart. She snatches Maggie up and runs down the hall.

Her nearly two-year-old son is in Anna's arms. His face is red, tears pour down his cheeks, and his voice is piercing.

-What happened? Elsie takes him. He wails, burying his face in her neck. Maggie stares at her brother.

-He dropped that bit of wood on his hand. I think it scared him, Vera says. She awkwardly pats his head. –Children are easily startled, especially young ones.

-Well, there doesn't seem to be much harm done. Elsie lets out a breath. There are no marks on Sam's little hands or on his arms. Or anywhere. –Let's go outside and find your Da and Mr. Bates, my lad.

He has calmed down by the time they meet the men sitting in the sun.

-Hello, Samuel, John reaches for the boy. –Do you remember me? Elsie hesitates, but gives her son to their friend. To her relief, Sam is quiet, watching the dark-haired man. Charles takes Maggie and bounces her on his knee. His eyebrows are furrowed.

-Is he hurt? We heard him out here.

-No, Elsie says, her hands on her hips. –Not that I can see. We think he frightened himself.

 _I've never heard him scream like that._

The sound had made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Vera sits down next to her husband. –This is a lovely view, she looks across the hills at the vineyard and the fields beyond. She curves her fingers into John's hair. He turns his attention from Samuel and grins at her, winning him a bright smile from his wife.

Elsie goes back into the kitchen. –I'll carry the pie, if you can get the bread and butter, she tells Anna.

-That woman is evil.

There is a hardness in the girl's voice, and steel in her blue eyes, that Elsie has never seen before.

-What do you mean? She asks.

Anna's fists are clenched. –I saw her _pinch_ Samuel! On his earlobe, with her fingernails! If I had been closer, I would have stopped her. She was _trying_ to hurt him, the girl seethes. –And then she lied to your face and pretended she had nothing to do with it!

Elsie's breath comes short. She clutches the back of a chair.

 _No, no, it can't be true. She must be mistaken._

 _Why would a stranger hurt my son? He's a baby!_

But she meets Anna's eyes. The girl is no liar; far from it. And she loves Samuel and Maggie, and would willingly put herself in harm's way before letting them get hurt.

 _I knew there was something wrong with Vera._

She hates to think her misgivings were justified. But instincts serve a purpose, as Mam says. We ignore them at our peril.

-I've seen her type before, the hired girl continues. –Back on the ship when my family sailed from England, there was a woman with her husband and little girl. She never took any notice of her daughter, except when the girl had her father's attention. Then she wanted it for herself. Women like her, she snorts, -they don't care about anyone but themselves.

Elsie digs her own fingernails into her palms. She believes Anna. But there is nothing to do except carry on as normal. Charles and John are ignorant, and if she and Anna keep their eyes on Vera, nothing more should happen. Anna believes the woman only acted when she thought no one saw her.

Both watches Vera during dinner. The woman is smooth. She laughs with the men, and turns the conversation to herself with a skill Elsie envies. She ignores Anna entirely.

Every time Vera reaches in Sam or Maggie's direction, Elsie sucks in her breath. Though she knows there is nothing the woman would dare to do with everyone sitting right there.

By the time dinner is over, she wonders if she is simply imagining things. Maybe Anna only _thought_ she saw something.

When she comes outside with the blackberry pie, Charles stands with Sam on his shoulders. Father and son face the other direction, looking out at the hills and the road to Sonoma. Maggie sucks on her fingers contentedly in John's arms.

Anna is talking to John about California.

-It's beautiful, she says with a small smile. –I love the sunshine and the warmth. The rain is lovely too…I suppose only a Yorkshire girl would say that.

-Or a man who grew up in dark, foggy London, he jokes, squinting up at the sky. –I'm not used to the sun either, even after all these years. As you can see.

The skin on his neck and arms is reddish-pink, and peeling in places.

-No one should ever mistake you for a Californio, that's certain. Unless you speak Spanish, she leans her elbow on the table.

Elsie is a little surprised to see the hired girl so at ease with someone she just met. And the same goes for John Bates.

- _Soy extranjero, pero este es mi hogar_ *, he says. His eyes twinkle when she raises her eyebrows. Maggie coos, and he and Anna look down at her.

-Her first words will probably be in Spanish, not English! Anna says.

They laugh.

Behind him, Vera glowers at Anna. She slips her hand around the crook of John's elbow quick as a wink and pinches the top of Maggie's tiny ear. Hard.

John does not see it. Neither does Anna.

Everything happens at once.

Maggie shrieks; Elsie drops the pie, splattering it on the ground; John leaps up in confusion, not knowing why the baby screams. He bangs his knee under the table, and Charles and Samuel spin around, wide-eyed at the commotion.

Elsie runs to John and takes Maggie from him.

John runs a hand through his hair as she comforts the crying Maggie. -She…she was fine. I don't know why she screamed.

-Why do children scream for no reason? Vera asks. –First the boy, and now his sister. It must be in the blood.

Her voice is sweet, like nectar.

-What do you mean by that? Charles snaps in her direction. He wants to say more, especially because John's wife is smirking at him, but he's holding Samuel.

Elsie's own blood boils.

Years before in Scotland, her father had warned her about her temper.

 _Do not let it master you, lass, or it will master you._

His words are drowned out by the red rage that floods through her.

-Anna, she says, handing Maggie quickly to her.

She storms over to Vera, grabs her by the ear and drags her out of her chair and onto the ground. Her fury makes her strong.

The woman yells in pain, trying to grab Elsie's arm.

-Bitch! Are you mad!?

- _You_ hurt my daughter, Elsie grits through her teeth. Her eyes blaze. –I saw you!

For good measure, she yanks Vera's ear again. She is so angry she doesn't care when the woman tears her sleeve and scratches her forearm.

-Crazy bitch! Vera yells. –Johnny, stop her!

Elsie hangs onto her. - _Liar!_ She shouts. –Anna saw you pinch Samuel, and I saw you just now. Don't try to deny it!

With a roar, Vera breaks her grip and scrambles to her feet. She tries to slap Elsie, but the young mother eludes her.

Charles and Anna watch with open mouths. Charles wants desperately to jump in between the two, but he is not about to let go of his son, or leave Anna and his daughter's side.

He feels something else as well. But he quashes it.

 _This is no time to think such things._

John is frozen in place, as shocked as the other two are. –What on earth-

Growling, Vera backhands Elsie hard on the cheek, sending her sprawling. –If you are going to start a fight, you had better be prepared to end it, she snarls under her breath.

Elsie wobbles unbalanced, kneeling on the ground. Some of her hair has come undone, and her cheek stings. Her fingers dab the corner of her lip. She tastes blood.

Before Vera can step back, she stands up and punches her in the nose with all the force she can muster. It feels like her hand is broken, but it is worth it just to watch her fall.

John runs forward and pulls his wife into his arms. –Are you all right!? He traces the outline of her face. She blinks rather woozily.

-I…I…oh God, Johnny, I don't want her to hit you too, she mumbles.

She seems smaller. Diminished. Frail, even.

John glares up at Elsie, fire in his eyes. –If you weren't a woman, I'd hit you myself, he fumes. –Why in the _hell_ would you attack Vera and call her a liar? You don't know her!

-I know her as much as I ever wish to, Elsie fires back hotly. Her blood rushes through her veins. –I call her a liar because she _is_ one, and I hit her because she hurt my children.

She looks at Charles, trying to convey what she feels through her eyes. –Anyone who hurts my children will be punished. I would do it again in a moment. You should ask your wife why she hit _me_.

-To protect herself, of course! John gently gets Vera to sit up.

Elsie is not convinced the woman is as fragile as she appears. The way Vera struck her made it plain she can dish it out, _so she can bloody well take it_.

Charles's jaw is set and his face is red. –Anna, would you please take the children inside? Thank you.

-Of course, Mr. Carson. Anna takes Samuel's hand after his father sets him down and hurries into the house, Maggie on her hip.

John helps Vera stand, his arm around her shoulders. She sags against him. –I don't know why she says I hurt the children, really I don't, she tells him. -Why would anyone do that?

-For your own amusement. Or to get the attention away from someone else, Elsie snaps.

-Vera wouldn't do that, John argues. –She doesn't need to divert anyone _to_ her; most people just naturally take to her.

He raises an eyebrow. –Are you jealous?

Elsie's mouth falls open. – _Jealous?_ Why would I be?

 _Of_ _ **her**_ _, especially!_

-She's got plenty of friends in San Francisco. And you live here, away from most folks. You're not used to keeping company with other young women. I think you're jealous of her.

As much as Elsie hates to admit it, John has a point. About company, that is. She has few friends. Her day-to-day life rarely takes her away from the house and their land.

He is completely wrong about her being jealous.

-You said Anna saw Vera pinch Samuel. And you saw her pinch Maggie. Charles breaks in, coming over to stand next to Elsie. He glowers at Vera. –What do you say to that?

-I don't know what the girl or Mrs. Carson saw, but I never hurt them. Vera is defiant. – _Never_.

-You are lying, Elsie cries. Charles blocks her from striking Mrs. Bates again.

-Why would Miss Smith say such a thing about you? John asks Vera. Elsie lets out a breath. Maybe he will see sense.

-I don't know. Vera hangs her head. –Maybe she has an active imagination. There's not much amusement around here…and you know as well as I do that servants can't be trusted. The scullery maid at our boardinghouse is a rotten liar, she tells the Carsons.

-That may be so, but Anna doesn't lie, Charles frowns. –We've never known her to be dishonest in any way.

Now John glares at his old friend. –You believe the word of a hired girl over my wife? I thought I knew you better.

-So did I. Charles's voice is soft.

The two men glare at each other.

-Mr. Bates, Elsie takes a short breath, trying to control her temper. Her corset feels like it is squeezing the life out of her. Her face throbs, and her lip is swollen. –Neither Mr. Carson nor I would ever deceive you. I am telling the truth, and I believe Anna is as well.

She cannot bring herself to apologize for striking Vera. It is unbelievable how brazen the woman is, lying like that to their faces.

-Whatever _they_ say, I would never lie to you, Vera squeezes John's arm. –I love you. Who are you going to believe – me or your so-called friends?

She throws a contemptuous look in Elsie's direction.

Charles watches doubt flicker over John's face as he looks from his wife to the Carsons, and back again. He holds his breath.

 _You are a decent man. An honest man. You know Elsie wouldn't lie, and you know you can trust me with your life._

 _You have before._

An ugly gleam appears in John's eyes. –Apologize to my wife, Mrs. Carson.

-What? Elsie whispers, not believing her ears.

-Apologize to Vera. She's done nothing wrong. Your hired girl is exaggerating. At best you didn't see what you thought you saw, and at worst, you're going along with her lies.

-You _b-believe_ her? Charles stutters, stunned.

-Of course I do. John marches in the direction of the barn, holding Vera's arm in his. –She's my wife! If I'm not on her side when she's attacked, I'm not worth much as a husband.

The shock is so great Charles staggers a little sideways. Elsie's hand is warm on his back. Steady. Charles is thankful beyond words that she is there.

 _My friend's honor is misplaced._

 _What can I say to change his mind?_

He goes after them. After a moment's hesitation, Elsie follows him. John leads his horses from the barn and begins hitching them to his carriage. Vera leans against the barn wall. Her nose looks crooked, Charles thinks, or perhaps it's just the sunlight and shadows.

-Are you leaving? Charles asks, trying to get his mind to catch up to what is happening in front of him.

-Yes. We can't stay here, not when you and your wife think mine is a liar and I'm a fool, John snorts.

Charles lays a hand on the front wheel. –Please don't go. Not like this.

He doesn't know how to fix the situation, but he knows he cannot let his closest friend leave angry.

-Make your wife apologize.

-I can't do that, Charles says. –I won't. I trust her, and I would be the last person to scold her for defending our children.

His anger, which has been tempered by his shock, is growing again. What on earth is the matter with John? Why can't he see what Vera is really like? Why does he insist Elsie and Anna are in the wrong?

-Then you had better let us go.

John finishes with the horses. He helps Vera into the carriage. –Where's your hat?

-Inside, she says, nodding at the house. –Where I left it. But it's no matter; I don't want to set foot on _their_ land again. Not after they've treated me so badly.

 _Good_ , Elsie thinks. _I do not ever want to see you here again._

She saves herself from saying it aloud by biting her lower lip, forgetting its painful condition. She whimpers.

Her heart twinges more at the sight of Charles's open anger and dismay.

-Is this goodbye then? He asks as John climbs up next to Vera.

The dark-haired man nods, barely looking at him. –It is.

He flicks the reins and they ride off down the road. The sunlight glimmers on the vineyard, and the wind rustles the leaves of the tree next to the barley field.

* * *

Elsie carries a cup of water down the hall. A candle flickers in Anna's room. She hovers in the doorway.

-I didn't mean to cause any trouble between you, Mr. Carson, and Mr. Bates, she says, worried.

-You never did. That harridan of a wife of his is the cause of all the trouble. Elsie glances at the half-open door to her and Charles's room. –We are both grateful for your help, as always. We know how much the children mean to you.

The girl tugs on her golden braid, still upset. –Mr. Bates is Mr. Carson's best friend, isn't he? I never meant to ruin their friendship.

-Anna. Elsie reaches out and touches her shoulder. –You're very highly valued, both to me and to Mr. Carson. You are like family to us, and we hope you see us the same way. What happened today between Mr. Carson and Mr. Bates is…unfortunate, but that is between them. You should not trouble yourself with it.

Anna gives her a small smile. –I'll try not to. You and Mr. Carson took me in and have treated me like I'm one of your own, she says. –I feel the same way. I am very grateful, truly.

-Good. Elsie squeezes her shoulder, her heart feeling a bit lighter. –Good night, Anna.

-Good night, Mrs. Carson.

Elsie lets out a breath as she shuts Anna's door. There is a lump in her throat. She has come to rely on the younger girl, more than she ever thought she would. And in a way Anna has become both like a sister and a daughter to her. Sort of like how Becky was when she was small.

She wonders if the fever had not changed Becky, if her relationship with Anna would be as strong.

Inside the bedroom, a fire crackles in the fireplace. Maggie is fast asleep in the cradle, and Samuel's arms are flung above his head in the trundle bed.

Thankfully, both are contented after the day's drama, and neither has any lingering pain.

Charles is still wearing his trousers, shirt, and suspenders. He stands by the fire, staring into its depths. His boots lay askew on the floor. That is not like him at all.

"Charlie?"

He turns at the sound of her voice. Tears shimmer in his eyes.

"He was the best friend I have ever had," he rumbles. "We crossed half the continent together, we worked together…and all of it gone. Up in smoke in an instant. How did it happen?"

Her heart sinks at his misery. "I am so sorry, _mo ghraidh_. I should never have let my temper get the better of me-"

"You were defending the children. I would never begrudge you that," he waves it off. "It is easy to look back and tell yourself how you should have reacted, but you saw what you saw. I just wish…"

He looks back into the fire, one hand on the mantle. She sets down the cup of water and wraps her arms around his broad torso.

"You wish Mr. Bates had believed me."

"Or at least _questioned_ why you and Anna would make such accusations." Frustration mounts in his face, lines appearing on his forehead. "But no – one look from his precious Vera, and he sets aside all reason!"

Elsie caresses his back. His muscles are tense. "Men sometimes lose their heads around women." A smile curves the corner of her mouth. "That has never happened to you, I'm sure."

"Hmph." He doesn't turn, but she feels him relax.

Guilt gnaws at her. Though she has just given Anna advice, she feels the same.

"You should write to him. The last thing I want is for you to lose such a good friend because of me."

"Elsie," he turns and takes her hands, resting them beneath his big ones on his chest. "Had I been alone when they arrived today, I doubt the afternoon would have ended well. _I_ had serious doubts about Vera as soon as I saw her, too. And," he takes a deep breath, "As difficult as it to admit it, Mr. Bates is not the same man he was when we became friends during our travels and when we owned the store together. He is not the same man he was before he left Petaluma. This is _not_ your fault; not yours, not Anna's, certainly not the children's. I should have done more to sustain our friendship. Perhaps if I had been closer to him, he never would have been seduced by someone like Vera."

"You should not blame yourself for that," she murmurs, seeing his own guilt flicker in his eyes. "He is your friend, yes, but he is also a man who makes his own choices. I think deep down he knows he's made the wrong choice, but that is something he will have to struggle with."

 _And God save him. He's married to her now._

"I hope you're right," Charles says. "I agree with you. I think he has doubts, but he's not likely to express them anytime soon. Certainly not to me."

"Will you write to him? Just to try?"

He nods. "Yes. I will. I must…I don't want to lose him, not like this. As far as I know, he doesn't have another friend as close as I've been. Except for Beryl, of course." He closes his eyes. "I can only imagine what she's going to think when she finds out he's married, and to whom."

"I think Richard knew," she says. "Part of me wonders why he didn't come out and tell us, but then, maybe he did not think it was his news to tell."

 _Though it would have been very useful to have been prepared._

She does not blame her brother if he did know about John. What could he have done that would have changed anything?

"He has his own life to look forward to," Charles smiles down at her. "Perhaps he preferred to dwell on happier things."

"Very likely," she whispers as he brushes his lips against hers. She hums a little at the gentle contact.

"Does it still hurt?" He ghosts his thumb beneath her lower lip. "Had your lip split, Richard would have had to sew it back together."

"Just a dull ache, really. I think her ring caught the corner of my lip. It should be fine in a day or two."

"And your cheek?" He raises his eyebrows. There is a definite bruise that has formed.

"I will live," she smiles a little, saying nothing about the pain when the skins stretches at the motion. "Not to worry."

"Our neighbors will think I've hit you," he frets. "The bruise definitely has a finger mark."

"A finger much smaller than yours," Elsie reminds him. She raises herself onto her toes and kisses him again. "I'm going to bed."

She climbs in, grateful it is warm beneath the quilt. This late winter evening carries a chill. It would be warmer if her husband joined her, but after he slips on his nightshirt he sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. Still lost in thought.

"What is it?" She leans on her elbow. "Even your silence is loud," she teases.

He shrugs, the outline of his ears sharp against the glow of the fire. "It's nothing."

Sliding across the bed, she touches his back. "Tell me. Is it more about Mr. Bates?"

"No."

"The children? Richard and Isobel? The Indians in Klamath County*?"

He shook his head, trying to smile. "No."

"I won't be able to sleep until you tell me," she says. She is only partly joking. If it is something serious, it is far better for him to speak now than to hold it inside.

He sighs and lays down, pulling her across his chest. Her head rests beneath his chin.

Sometimes he wishes she was not so perceptive. Or persistent.

He hardly knows how to start.

 _What if she is appalled that I would think such things?_

 _You will never know if you say nothing._

 _She will find it out eventually._

"This afternoon-" he began, and halted awkwardly. "During what happened, I was…shocked. And angry about what had happened to Samuel and Maggie. But when you dragged Vera from her chair and hit her, I-"

The image floods through his mind again. His Elsie, defending their children. Her eyes blazing. Red spots appearing on her face, displaying her anger.

Breathing hard, her chest rising and falling in indignation.

"What?" She asks, lifting her head a little.

He swallows and licks his lips. "I…you were _beautiful_. Frightening, but beautiful," he admits. He forces himself to look her in the face. There is a line between her eyebrows. "You…you were marvelous." He tries to say what he feels with some dignity, but gives up. He must be honest. "I wanted nothing more than to carry you in here, and tear your dress off you."

Color rushes into her face. "You thought so when I was _angry?_ I would never have thought you would want…want _that_ when I'm in a raging temper!"

She tries to think what it felt like in that moment, what he could have seen. Thoughts of defending the children and her own integrity aside, she felt strong. Powerful.

"Elsie Carson," he rumbles. His breath on her hair makes her shiver. "There is never a day that goes by when I don't want you. When you're happy, yes. Even when you are sad, or frustrated…I would never want to make you angry on purpose," he hastens to add. "But do you have any idea what you look like when you are?"

"Like an ugly storm cloud?"

"Ravishing," he whispers.

She is used to him speaking to her like this when they are alone; both have become freer as time has worn on. The thought of him wanting her when she is enraged is somewhat embarrassing to her. She cannot explain why, except that it does not seem proper at all.

 _Oh._

 _That IS the point._

She presses her lips together. He has taken a risk, and been honest with her. Bold.

 _I can be like that, too._

Turning over, she kisses him, feeling his mouth open. The tip of her tongue slips inside.

She adores the feel of his body, his heat seeping through his nightshirt and through her shift. Their kisses grow more passionate. Hums and murmurs are interspersed between gasps and soft moans.

"I love you." Charles struggles to sit up.

Elsie pushes him gently back down. "I love you." His head flops against the pillow. Together, they shed his nightshirt and hers.

"Take down your hair," he whispers. "Please." As usual, she is already ahead of him, undoing the braid she normally wears at night, and running her fingers through her hair to loosen it.

But when he goes to turn her over onto her back, she grabs his hands, linking her fingers through his. "No."

"No?"

"No," she smiles a little at his confusion. Giving him another deep kiss, she follows it with another on his chin, down his throat, over his heart.

Then she climbs on top of him, straddling his wide, muscular torso.

He gazes up at her. Her eyes are lowered, but there is a smile on her face. He loves how she has gotten bolder. That she knows how beautiful she is to him.

She lets go of his hands, letting him explore her. She rests her hands on his chest. His palms caress her breasts, slide across her belly. His fingers dance over her hips and sink into the soft flesh of her thighs. When she moves forward to let him reach farther, they both gasp. His manhood pokes her beneath her bum near her sex.

 _Not close enough._

Charles reaches behind him and grabs her pillow, setting it behind his head to let him sit up higher. Elsie's breath comes quicker. She holds the sides of his face between her hands and kisses him fully on the mouth.

She loves, she _loves_ when they are like this. Skin on skin, nothing between them. She feels a wicked delight in being on top for once; she is used to his weight driving her down into the bed.

He likes it, too. "You feel…so _good_ ," he grunts out between kisses. "What you do to me…"

She moves her head a little, and his breath warms her neck.

He is always warm.

A moan breaks from her mouth.

The touch of his lips sets her on fire.

 _He kisses me anywhere, and I am gone._

His hands slip down her back, up between her thighs.

 _So wet,_ he thinks, his mind hazy as she cries out. _God in heaven, this woman is amazing._

 _And she is mine._

His fingers part her folds and he rubs her slowly, increasing the friction between them. His need is growing painful.

But he loves to make her come undone.

Her hips thrust forward, her body aching, craving him. His fingers inside her are what she needs. "Oh god," she gasps, frantic for release.

 _Yes my love YESSSSSS_

A high-pitched sigh, a moan, the sound she only makes for him, echoes in their room an instant before she buries her face in his neck. Even now, in her ecstasy, she is aware their children are close by.

Somehow they have managed to never wake the little ones.

He removes his fingers from her sex, caressing her back as she shakes. She kisses him, tracing the stubble along his jawline. Kisses him on his perfect mouth again, harder, with more urgency.

The glory of their love is that she wants _more_ after he has pleasured her.

 _And not too late._

He is desperate for his own release.

Instead of moving off of him, however, and laying on her back, she leans back and takes him in hand.

"Damnation, Elsie," he swears, her nimble fingers making him hard enough to burst, "God almighty, I need you _now_ -"

"I need you, _mo ghraidh_ ," she breathes. She spreads her legs a bit wider. They both cry out when she guides him into her wet, waiting warmth.

She slides up and down along his length, controlling the rhythm. His hands rest on her hips. Leaning forward, she bends to kiss him, and the angle brings him deeper inside her.

He yells once, thrusting hard. His wife moans, her hands clutching his shoulders, her body molded to his.

 _Or mine to hers._

There is nothing but him, him inside her, his seed pouring into her. Her sex feels alive – pulsing, giving, receiving.

All the while he continues to buck his hips, meeting her.

It is different to be beneath her. He feels the motion of her hips, her knees pressed on either side of his torso.

 _Like riding,_ he thinks wildly. _Only I am the one being ridden._

She is close. Her movements are erratic, her words a blurred tangle of her mother tongue and English. He wants to flip over. Have her beneath him. Have gravity work for him, so he can pound into her the way he wants to.

 _This is about what_ _ **SHE**_ _wants. What she needs._

An inarticulate cry rips from her throat. Her sex tightens around his manhood, and on instinct he pulls her down, her breasts against his chest. Thrusting faster, he feels her come apart.

Before he does as well.

The orange glow of the fire reflects on the contours of her face. Her open mouth as she gasps for air. Her dark eyes.

He drowns in them. In her.

Her muffled cries, her hair brushing his chest, the way her body moves with his is a marvel. They have grown closer since their marriage; at times they can communicate without words.

This dance of passion they share is like a rich wine, saved for last.

When he is finally spent, she rests her head against his. Their breathing is labored. Tears have formed in her eyes, and they drip onto his face.

"Are you-are you hurt?" He gasps, stroking her jaw. He dares not touch her cheek.

She shakes her head. Her lips are swollen, especially the bruised bottom one, and he hopes he did not accidently bite her.

"Your poor lip," he murmurs. She laughs, and the tremors vibrate through his body. Sweat beads on his chest, in his hair, but she does not move off of him just yet, never mind how warm they both are.

"You are forever worried about my lip," she blows a breath through her nose. "Your kisses make it better, not worse, my love."

He is very glad to hear it. "But you're not hurt?" He needs to be sure.

"Not at all." She kisses him once more and climbs off of him, running a hand across his chest. He rests his own over it. "You never hurt me. I hope I didn't hurt you."

"No," he mumbles sleepily. Smiling, he squeezes her hand. "Quite the opposite."

They cuddle together without words. Basking in each other.

His mind is still flooded in the aftermath of their lovemaking; like a hangover without the headache.

 _I am the happiest and the luckiest man alive._

After a while, thoughts of John intrude on the edge of his consciousness.

As before, the silence is loud.

Elsie senses her husband's thoughts. "Today is not the end. You both have been friends for a long time…before any women were involved."

"You did not come in between us. Had he never met that…woman, everything would be as it was." He shifts a little to look at her. "He was always friendly with you before."

She holds Charles until he falls asleep, before getting up, cleaning herself, and pulling her shift back on. Tucking herself back into her husband's arms, she hopes she has not given him false hope.

 _God, please let them be friends again._

* * *

 _ **March-December, 1855**_

As expected, Beryl is perplexed and furious when she is told about John Bates.

-I would not have punched his wife in the face! She tells Elsie. –I would have hit her with the frying pan. With the hot grease still left in it.

She tickles Samuel, who giggles on her lap.

-Who could ever hurt you and your sister? She asks him, ruffling his curls. –A rotten…witch of a woman, that's who.

Elsie raises an eyebrow, grateful her friend has chosen her words with care. Samuel is talking more and more, and he often repeats words he hears.

Several days after John and Vera have been there, he says "bitch" plain as day. Both his parents are very keen for him to _not_ pick up any more bad words.

There is little time for the Carsons to dwell on it. Richard goes to San Francisco just long enough to settle his affairs and to bring his few belongings north. Isobel and Matthew move out of their old home and into a different one.

April brings fine weather, the Clarksons, and the Hughes families to Sonoma. It is the first time Malcolm has brought his entire family. Both Charles and Elsie are delighted, though the extra guests make their house seem entirely too small.

Sofia Hughes loves to hold her cousin Maggie. Malcolm laughs, and asks Elsie if he and Josefina can bring her daughter south with them.

-We told Sofia she will have to wait a while before she can see her new brother or sister, he tousles Sofia's dark hair. –But she is impatient and wants to know why she can't see the baby _now_. At least she's quiet with Maggie.

Josefina expects her third child to arrive in September. Her and Malcolm's son Jamie is a year older than Samuel. The two tiny boys are inseparable. They shriek with laughter, and fight each other – often within five minutes. They both follow Matthew everywhere when he is at the Carson's home.

-I can see William's house from my bedroom window now, Matthew confides to Anna two days before his mother's wedding. –We're going to signal each other with our candles.

-I'm sure that's fine, as long as you remember to blow them out before you go to sleep, she tells him.

Richard Clarkson and Isobel Crawley are married on a slightly chilly morning. Rain has passed the night before, and the clouds linger. But when the newlyweds emerge from the church, the sun peeks out.

Elsie dabs at her eyes. She has never seen Richard look so happy, and Isobel is radiant.

 _May there be few clouds in your life together._

Malcolm, Josefina, and the children leave the day after the wedding. Becky goes to stay with Beryl, who has been wanting Elsie's sister to visit for some time. Patrick and Abigail stay for another week, the latter to visit with her married daughter and grandchildren, and the former to get to know Matthew better. The boy stays with the Carsons while his mother and new stepfather share a few days alone.

-He's a good lad, Patrick tells Charles one morning as they walk in the vineyard. –Very bright, and gentle with the younger children. He asked what he should call me. As I'm not his grandfather by blood, I wondered myself. I asked him if he liked _abuelito_.

-Grandpa or granddad, Charles says, trimming a vine. –What did he say?

Patrick tugs on his grey mustache. –He said he'd try it. Richard told me the two of them aren't sure yet what Matthew's going to call him. They have time to decide. But my son does _not_ want to be referred to as Dr. Clarkson at home, that's certain. Too formal.

When the Clarksons go home to Mission San Jose and Matthew leaves, Elsie feels like the house is empty. It does not stay like it for long. Beryl brings Becky back to Sonoma in June, in time to celebrate Samuel's birthday. Elsie's fourteen-year-old sister stays until the end of September.

-It was good of you to have Becky visit for so long, Richard says one rainy Sunday afternoon in December. He and Isobel are visiting, as they often do. –Da and your mother love her dearly, but she can be a handful.

-Malcolm and I talked about it for a long time, Elsie sighs. –Our parents will only get older as the years go by, and Becky will always be a child in her mind, if not in her body. Malcolm and Josefina are determined to care for her permanently when the time comes, but I want to do my part. She's my sister, too.

Her eyes glisten. –And I miss her, as much as she can test my patience!

"For not being able to say many words, she communicates well enough," Charles smiles at his wife. "And whatever she may have lost to the fever, she has not forgotten that you are her older sister. She does enjoy tormenting you at times."

Elsie laughs. –She was helping me bake Maggie's birthday cake. She knocked over the flour, she explains to Richard. -She knew it needed to be cleaned up, but instead she emptied the rest of it over my head! Anna found us covered in white!

-She told me you laughed until you cried. Isobel tilts her head, her brown eyes sparkling. –I am so glad you have a good memory with Becky. You'll treasure it always.

-I will indeed. Richard said you received a letter from your brother Edward last week. What news does he have? Elsie asks. Isobel's brother is a doctor in New York City.

-He sent hearty congratulations about our marriage. Isobel squeezes Richard's hand. Her wedding band glints in the sun. –Marriage is nowhere on the horizon for him. I'm not surprised. He says he is far too busy, which is true enough in the summer. Though he did have time to read a book of poetry. He didn't tell me who wrote it, only that the words stayed with him.

She closes her eyes, remembering. –He copied several lines down...

' _I celebrate myself, and sing myself,_

 _And what I assume you shall assume,_

 _For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you_ …'*

Charles frowns. –That does not sound like poetry to me.

-You are not a poet, dear, Elsie teases him.

Isobel and Richard talk about Matthew, as he is visiting the Masons again.

-Those boys are inseparable, Richard shakes his head. If Matthew isn't at the farm, the two of them are laughing in our sitting room, dreaming up one scheme after another.

-I was out visiting Mrs. Wheeler last month, Isobel says. –I came home to find the two of them frantically trying to peel some kind of sludge off the kitchen wall. They had mixed some concoction together on the stove, but it went wrong. There's still spots. You can see them at Christmas.

She smiles, tucking a stray hair back. Elsie knows she was furious the day it happened.

-Some spots are hard to wash off, Elsie smiles at Samuel and Maggie, who are playing with a wooden horse on the floor. –I suppose we have those kinds of adventures to look forward to.

-I got a letter from Henry Reece, Richard says as Charles refills their wine. –Your vintage was extremely popular at Thanksgiving, apparently.

-Yes. He was effusive in his praise. I was more relieved he received his barrel intact.

Charles sits down, a frown on his face. The name of the San Francisco judge has reminded him of more unpleasant business.

Richard notices. –I take it he has not seen John Bates recently.

Pressing his lips together, Charles studies his wine. –No. He wrote that the last he had heard of either of them was October. When he inquired at their boardinghouse, he was told they had left a few days previously. _Without_ paying all the rent.

Elsie winces. She has heard the details already, but it does not make the re-telling any less painful.

-You wrote to him yourself, didn't you? Isobel asks gently. Charles nods.

-Several times. Five letters in all.

He has received no replies to any of them. The last letter had been sent after he had asked Mr. Reece to look into it, so he could perhaps blame that on his letter never having reached John.

But the others?

He can only assume John had no wish to write back. There is no way of knowing whether his friend has read anything he sent.

Despite what happened in the spring, he is unwilling to think of the man as anything other than a friend.

He is certainly not an enemy.

-I wrote back to Mr. Reece, he shakes himself from his reverie. –Thanking him for his trouble.

-He found it no trouble. He said as much to me, Richard reassures him. –These days, I think we should reserve the word 'trouble' for what is going on in Kansas. If you ask me.

Everyone nods in silent agreement. The escalating violence between free soil settlers in that territory and pro-slavery is well known. Massive electoral fraud, rival territorial legislatures, and the large numbers of abolitionists and pro-slavery men pouring into the area have combined to make a bad situation worse.

\- I read over a thousand men went to invade Lawrence*, Charles sips his wine. –They were fortunate only a few were killed before they agreed to a peace treaty.

-Small comfort to the families of the dead, Elsie murmurs. She feels an icy chill down her back. Though they are well away from the threat of violence, the newspapers bring the truth into their home.

 _Politics inspiring violence! Is any of it really worth fighting for?_

 _You know some things are worth fighting for._

The sound of her children's laughter eases her heart. As does the feel of Charles's hand in hers.

Turning the conversation, Isobel tells her of the warm letter she received from Abigail. –I am not sure I will ever get used to your mother being, for all intents and purposes, my mother-in-law, she grins. –But I could not ask for a better one.

Elsie raises an eyebrow. –Are you saying that because she is _my_ mother, or are you simply trying to get along with your husband? He's very fond of his father's wife, too.

-Both, Isobel says with her characteristic certainty.

-We should send you to wherever there's trouble, Charles says. –You would find a suitable answer to please everyone in no time.

-Or offend everyone, Richard laughs. –As you know, she is not afraid to share her opinion.

He kisses his wife on the cheek when she gives him a look. –And I love you for them.

-Flatterer, she snorts under her breath.

When Anna comes in, her cheeks red from the cold, she finds them all laughing together.

It warms the house.


End file.
